PILGRIMS  INTO  FOLLY 


WALLACE      IRWIN 


PILGRIMS    INTO 
FOLLY 

ROMANTIC  EXCURSIONS 

BY 

WALLACE  IRWIN 

</ 

AUTHOR  OF  "LETTERS  OF  A  JAPANESE  SCHOOLBOY," 
"RANDOM  RHYMES  AND  ODD  NUMBERS," 

ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  igi7, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQI7,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  INCORPORATED 
COPYRIGHT,  IQI4,  I9IS,  BY  THE  MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 
COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  THE  SHORT  STORY  PRESS  CORPORATION 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES   OF  AMERICA 


TO 

DONNY'S  MOTHER 


471373 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    WINGS ii 

II.     HE  SHOT  THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE     .  59 

III.  THE  HIGHEST 94 

IV.  WHAT  BECAME  OF  DEEGAN  FOLK?.  141 

V.     You  CAN'T  GET  AWAY  FROM  YOUR 

GRANDFATHER 184 

VI.     THE  TORPEDO 248 

VII.     THE  IDEAL  GENTLEMAN  ....  295 


PILGRIMS  INTO  FOLLY 


The  Wise  Men  sit  in  the  harbor  town  smoking  the  pipe  of 

ease; 
Theif  hearts  are  invested  at  four  per  cent  and  they  have  no 

soul  for  the  seas, 
And  they  blink  as  they  ask  of  the  Wanderer's  Moon  over  the 

billows  hung, 
"What  has  become  of  the  Ship  of  Fools  and  the  gossamer 

sail  she  swung? 

"She's  a  long  time  gone;  and  we  cried  her  doom  on  the  day 

that  she  put  from  shore. 
A  madness  lies  in  the  path  o'  the  moon,  as  sages  have  said 

before. 
A  plague  on  the  quest  of  the  wild  goose  quill!    We  know — 

since  we're  wise  and  old — 
That  the  measure  of  Love  is  common  sense  and  the  standard 

of  Wealth  is  gold." 

The  Wise  Men  sip  in  the  Market  Inn.     Satisfied  folk  are 

they; 
Pillar  and  prop  of  the  Board  of  Trade  with  never  a  debt 

to  pay. 
But  the  Ship  of  Fools  lies  sunk  in  the  ooze,  far  leagues  from 

the  guarded  lands — 
Comes  there  no  word  from  the  lips  of  the  drowned  who  have 

touched  Hesperian  sands? 


PILGRIMS  INTO  FOLLY 


WINGS 


NORA,  toward  the  end  of  the  simple  air  she 
was  playing,  found  herself  drawing  her  bow 
smoothly  and  at  right  angles  across  the  E 
string,  causing  a  liquid,  sustained  note  that  thrilled 
her  like  the  cry  of  a  beautiful,  strange  water-crea- 
ture, rising  in  flight,  as  she  imagined  it,  from  some 
undiscovered  pool. 

"Oh !"  She  gave  the  exclamation  in  that  tender 
voice  of  hers,  which  seemed  always  a-tremble  with 
emotion.  Then  she  said  to  the  violin  instructor, 
who  slouched  at  the  piano,  absent-mindedly  turning 
pages,  "If  I  could  do  that  all  the  time!" 

She  stood  there,  tall  and  slender,  the  garlands  of 
her  wavy,  brownish  red  hair  falling  to  the  nape 
of  her  white  neck,  her  grey  eyes  bright  with  their 
dream.  Those  eyes  were  wide-set  between  high 
cheek  bones  that  gave  her  face  a  Slavic  cast,  alien 
to  the  commonplace,  prosperous,  respectable  house- 
hold of  which  she  was  a  part.  Charles  Mallock, 

ii 


Pilgrims  Into  Folly 


from  his  corner,  levelled  his  critical,  clever  gaze 
under  shaggy  brows  and  said, 

"You  can.  But  you've  got  to  make  a  business 
of  it.  The  trouble  with  most  young  ladies  is  just 
that  —  they  want  to  be  young  ladies  and  artists  at 
one  and  the  same  time.  To  build  a  Parthenon 
some  one's  got  to  put  on  overalls  and  lay  stones 
—  but,  say!  The  Greeks  didn't  wear  overalls,  did 
they?" 

"I  suppose  not,  but  I  understand,"  she  answered 
his  laugh  quite  seriously,  and  her  face  took  on  the 
tragic  look  it  sometimes  wore,  as  if  the  spirit  of 
another  person  had  suddenly  obsessed  her. 

The  rugged,  interesting,  shabbily  dressed  young 
fellow  came  toward  her  and,  taking  the  violin  and 
its  bow  from  her  two  listless  hands,  held  the  latter 
before  her  eyes  in  the  approved  position. 

"Never  forget  your  first  lesson,  Nora/'  he  said. 
"Be  firm  and  gentle  with  your  bow.  Like  this." 

He  locked  the  fiddle  under  his  chin  and  placed 
the  bow  on  the  E  string.  If  Nora's  hand  had  drawn 
a  wild,  magic  note  from  that  enchanted  pool,  there 
was  now  a  bewitching  flock  of  them,  flying,  flying 
into  a  tropic  moon  and  singing  as  they  flew. 

"Charlie,"  she  besought  him.  "Don't  stop  now. 
Play  me  Schumann's  'Prophet  Bird'  !" 

"Your  hour's  not  up,"  he  protested  with  a  mas- 
ter's show  of  firmness. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  insisted,  wheedling  as  a  child. 
"We  started  ten  minutes  early." 


Wings  13 

Already  he  had  bent  his  heavy,  full-blooded  face 
to  the  instrument  and  was  plunging  into  that  high 
ecstasy.  The  prim,  handsome,  unimaginative  draw- 
ing-room of  the  Gregory  house  admitted  all  the  pow- 
ers of  light  and  darkness,  all  the  hosts  of  the  upper 
air,  vista,  vision,  prophecy,  while  £n  outlaw  voice 
from  another  planet,  trilling  into  elfin  strains,  plung- 
ing into  deeps,  sang,  sang  of  a  wild  delight  beyond 
the  reach  of  starlight  and  of  suns. 

It  was  long  after  the  notes  had  ceased  to  soar 
that  she  shook  herself  free  of  the  entrancement. 
Charlie  Mallock  was  now  producing  short,  ugly, 
workmanlike  sounds  from  the  G  string  in  the  proc- 
ess of  tuning  up. 

"Tell  me,  Charlie,"  she  began  and  hesitated. 
They  were  Charlie  and  Nora  to  each  other,  in  pri- 
vate, despite  the  social  accident  which  had  put  the 
Gregorys  in  control  of  a  dozen  tile-factories  while 
the  Mallocks  drove  livery  'busses  between  the  rail- 
way station  and  Wellesville's  leading  hotel. 

"Do  you  think  I'll  ever  make  a  violinist?"  she 
found  courage,  finally,  to  ask. 

"That's  the  question  that  troubles  us  all,"  he 
evaded. 

"You  think  I'm  too  old  to  begin,"  she  declared. 

"Well,  they  say  you  ought  to  learn  in  the  cradle, 
and  you're " 

"Nearly  twenty,"  she  confessed  with  the  youth- 
ful tendency  to  stretch  out  toward  age. 

"Nora,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  informed  her,  taking  his 


14  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

place  beside  her  on  the  couch  where  she  had  settled ; 
now  they  were  abandoning  music  for  conversation, 
as  they  did  too  often  for  Mrs.  Gregory's  liking.  "I 
was  nine  years  old  when  a  German  named  Schwepp 
took  me  in  hand,  lent  me  his  fiddle  and  gave  me 
my  first  lesson.  My  father  hated  the  idea  of  my 
becoming  a  musician — sensible  people  are  always 
that  way.  He  put  me  to  driving  a  team  as  soon  as 
I  was  old  enough  to  hold  the  lines;  but  I  used  to 
practise  nights  with  old  Schwepp,  and  when  I'd 
earned  enough  money  with  my  'bus  to  start  out  for 
myself,  I  went  to  Munich  and  half  starved  for  four 
years.  So  here  I  am,  going  on  twenty-five,  lead- 
ing a  third  rate  orchestra  in  the  Palm  Garden,  giv- 
ing easy  lessons  to  bright  beginners  and " 

"But,  Charlie!"  There  came  a  sensitive  line  into 
the  face  that  seemed  always  feeling  for  sensations. 
"Are  these  lessons  such  a  bore  to  you?" 

"Not  your  lessons,"  he  said,  in  the  square,  brusque 
manner  with  which  he  delivered  his  compliments. 
"Nora,  I  think  you  have  something — spirit — that's 
going  to  give  colour  to  your  work,  whether  you  suc- 
ceed or  not." 

"You  don't  think  I'll  succeed?" 

"That's  such  a  rock-bound  measure  to  put  on 
moonshine,  isn't  it?"  he  smiled.  "Success — a  bully 
box-office  term.  But  there's  something  else  that's 
got  to  count  with  us  fellows — it's  that  reaching  up 
for  the  stars.  There's  no  catch-phrase  that's  more 
of  a  chestnut  than  Art  for  Art's  Sake — and  there's 


Wings 15 

none  more  true.  We've  got  to  take  our  wages  in  the 
form  of  delight,  most  of  us.  For  instance,  I've 
written  my  first  operatic  score.  I've  had  my  fun 
with  it.  I'm  paid  in  my  own  coin.  If  I  take  it,  later, 
to  New  York  and  hawk  it  about  among  the  man- 
agers, they  can't  give  me  anything  in  money  or  ad- 
vertisement to  equal  what  I've  got  already  out  of 
the  doing  of  the  job." 

"Just  to  do  that!"  she  breathed  deep;  and  at  that 
instant  she  caught  in  his  homely,  inspired  face  a 
look  she  had  never  before  recognised;  an  intimate 
knowledge,  a  searching  that  frightened  and  at- 
tracted her. 

"How  like  your  Aunt  Hilda  you  look  sometimes !" 
he  exclaimed  abruptly. 

"Poor  Aunt  Hilda!"  she  echoed. 

"Do  you  mind  my  saying  so  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no — that  is,  I  don't  think  I  do."  And  there 
came  to  her  a  vision  of  that  wanderer  upon  the  face 
of  the  earth,  the  tired,  broken  failure  of  a  woman, 
who  had  come  back  to  her  sister's  house  a  month 
ago  to  die  in  peace. 

Mrs.  Gregory,  satisfied  worldly  woman  of  a  small 
world,  had  found  it  her  duty,  at  times,  to  speak  to 
her  eldest  daughter  about  Aunt  Hilda. 

"Even  though  she's  my  own  sister  I  can't  deny 
she's  a  Failure,"  Mrs.  Gregory  would  sigh,  tight- 
ening her  plump,  comely  person  to  an  attitude  of 
commiseration.  Carlotta  Gregory's  nose,  which 


1 6  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

was  impertinent  and  had  a  crease  at  the  point, 
breathed  scorn  at  the  very  mention  of  the  outcast. 
"Since  she  ran  off  with  that  man  Sarodny,"  she 
would  add  with  the  expressive  sniff  of  virtue  scent- 
ing vice. 

Aunt  Hilda's  late  husband  had  always  been  "that 
man  Sarodny,"  to  Mrs.  Gregory,  and  the  fact  that 
she  "ran  off"  with  him  was  not  compensated  for,  in 
Carlotta's  opinion,  by  the  marriage  license,  which 
had  shielded  their  ill-starred  departure.  Where  the 
road  of  life  forks  at  Decision  there  are  two  ways, 
one  straight  forward  on  the  comfortable  levels  of 
Secure  Position,  the  other  to  Heaven  Knows 
Where ;  Hilda  had  plainly  taken  the  wrong  path,  ac- 
cording to  this  good  little  blond  woman's  scrip- 
tures, patiently  interpreted  for  the  benefit  of  the 
inexperienced  Nora.  Mr.  Gregory  himself  seldom 
referred  to  his  sister-in-law,  save  in  monosyllables, 
but  his  wife  was  stern  to  her  Christian  duty.  Nora 
must  be  warned.  Hilda  had  chosen  the  left  fork  of 
the  road,  which,  as  her  sister  knew,  had  led  her 
downward  to  depths  which  no  woman  of  her  caste 
should  ever  know,  need  ever  know.  Against  the 
best  advice  of  her  friends  and  family  she  had 
thrown  herself  into  the  arms  of  that  peculiar,  er- 
ratic, intemperate  newspaper  writer  on  the  Welles- 
ville  Herald.  Nora's  mother  had  told  her  of  this 
so  often  and  groaned;  why  shouldn't  Hilda  have 
been  reasonable  in  her  youth  and  married  in  her 
own  class?  That  man  Sarodny!  It  had  been 


Wings  17 

twenty-two  years  since  his  blighting  lure  had 
snatched  Carlotta's  sister  into  the  nether  realms. 

For  years  after  their  impetuous  marriage  the 
Sarodnys  had  been  submerged  in  the  metropolitan 
slime.  Occasional,  half-relevant  letters  had  told 
too  much  of  their  manner  of  living.  These  mes- 
sages, scrawled  on  cheap  paper,  had  drifted  in  from 
the  dubious  realms  of  Heaven  Knows  Where. 
Hilda  had  written  once  that  she  was  desperately  ill 
and  out  of  funds.  Again  she  had  explained  how 
her  baby  had  died  in  a  charity  ward.  Then,  a 
dozen  years  after  his  predatory  departure,  some 
one  in  Wellesville  picked  out  of  the  ten  cent  counter 
of  a  second-hand  bookstore  a  violent,  radical  vol- 
ume, authorship  of  Phillip  Sarodny.  Carlotta 
Gregory,  in  order  to  assure  herself  that  he  was  a 
socialist  and  a  scamp,  read  a  chapter  before  she 
caused  the  book  to  be  burned  in  secret  that  the  chil- 
dren might  not  get  at  it.  The  Sarodnys,  she  later 
informed  Nora  with  the  horrified  intaking  of  the 
breath  she  reserved  for  that  unpleasant  subject,  had 
gone  West  and  gotten  control  of  a  labour-agitating 
newspaper  which  had  been  suppressed  by  the  police. 
Then,  as  a  fitting  crown  to  such  a  career,  Sarodny 
had  gotten  himself  shot  and  properly  killed  in  a 
drunken  quarrel. 

Nora  had  heard  the  refrain  so  oft  repeated — 
that  man  Sarodny.  Mrs.  Gregory,  smiling  amiably 
across  the  expensive  dinner  service  to  greet  Welles- 
ville's  most  respected  citizen,  Harrison  Gregory 


1 8  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

had  chimed  it  with  all  the  changes  in  the  ear  of  an 
irresponsive  spouse.  Nora's  father,  yearly  growing 
stouter,  but  still  a  handsome,  blond,  regular-fea- 
tured gentleman,  had  never  added  his  shaft  to  his 
wife's  malicious  archery.  "Poor  Hilda  didn't  do 
well,"  was  all  he  ever  permitted  himself,  and  that  at 
wide  intervals.  Nora  wondered  about  her  father. 

In  the  curiosity  of  her  seventeenth  year  the  girl 
had  once  gone  rummaging  through  an  old  chest  of 
drawers  in  the  Gregory  attic.  She  had  had  no  busi- 
ness in  that  quarter,  but  the  romance  of  castaway 
junk  was  upon  her.  She  had  found  a  volume  of 
Robert  Browning's  poetry  under  a  tangle  of  silken 
rags,  a  sentimental  volume  with  violets  on  the  cover 
and  a  wood-cut  of  the  Poet  for  frontispiece ;  and  on 
the  fly-leaf,  in  faded  ink,  the  inscription,  "From 
Hilda  to  Harry — September,  1894."  A  sharpened 
suspicion  had  impelled  her  to  trace  out  the  few 
words,  indistinctly  scribbled  below: 

"I  have  marked  some  lines,  page  207.  These  will 
tell,  better  than  I  can,  what  I  mean." 

On  page  207  she  had  found  the  poem  "Abt  Vog- 
ler"  and  a  faint  pen-mark  at  the  line : 

"The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth 
too  hard."1 

and  a  few  pages  back, 

"Oh,  "but  a  man's  reach  must  exceed  his  grasp — or 
what's  a  heaven  for?" 


Wings  19 

She  had  restored  the  book  quickly,  guiltily,  and 
gone  her  way.  But  the  ghost  would  not  quit  her 
side ;  and  it  stood  boldly  in  white  daylight  upon  the 
occasion  when  Sally  Powers,  foolish  little  chatter- 
box, had  giggled  and  asked,  Didn't  Nora  know  why 
Aunt  Hilda  had  married  Phillip  Sarodny  so  sud- 
denly? Sally's  mother  knew.  Hilda  Troyan  had 
flouted  Mr.  Gregory  in  a  rage ;  and  it  had  been  com- 
mon gossip,  when  Mrs.  Powers  was  younger,  that 
Mr.  Gregory  had  married  Hilda's  sister  almost  di- 
rectly after  the  elopement. 

So,  early  in  April  of  this  year,  Mrs.  Gregory 
had  begun  again  to  whisper  about  Aunt  Hilda. 
Nora  had  come  upon  many  mumbled  conversations 
between  her  mother  and  her  father.  "Good  sani- 
tarium," she  had  heard  Carlotta  Gregory  say  au- 
thoritatively. "In  Welles ville?"  her  husband  had 
angrily  responded.  At  last,  mysteriously  and  after 
dissension,  it  was  decided  that  Mrs.  Sarodny  should 
lay  down  her  weary  bones  in  her  sister's  house. 
Her  mother's  official  announcement  of  the  coming 
event  was  unforgettable.  "Nora,"  she  had  put  it, 
"to-morrow  we  expect  a  visit  from  your  Aunt 
Hilda.  You  know,  since  that  man  Sarodny  died 
and  left  her  destitute  her  health  has  failed.  Every- 
thing seems  to  fail  with  poor  Hilda."  Poor  Hilda 
had  been  helped  out  of  the  family  automobile  on 
the  appointed  morning,  a  frail,  gaunt  wreck  of  a 
woman,  holding  to  beauty's  last  remaining  frag- 
ments, a  voice  that  thrilled  with  glory,  eyes  that 


2O  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

were  deep  as  the  sea  and  as  tragic  in  their  calm. 
Nora  could  scarcely  believe  that  these  two  women 
could  ever  have  lived  and  played  together  as  sis- 
ters. The  stout,  blond,  self-satisfied  woman  of  a 
small  world ;  the  emaciated,  sallow  wanderer  of  the 
planet.  There  showed  in  their  outward  appearance 
not  one  trace  of  family  resemblance.  Strangers, 
aliens,  antagonists,  they  had  eyed  each  other  and 
smiled. 

Mrs.  Gregory  had  arrayed  her  four  handsome 
children  to  greet  the  unfortunate  of  their  kin.  Over 
the  three  younger  Aunt  Hilda  had  hurried  her  sad, 
inward-looking  glance. 

"And  you?"  she  had  exclaimed  in  that  wonder- 
ful voice,  stretching  out  a  thin  hand  to  Nora. 
"You're  Grandfather  Troyan's  child." 

"No,  indeed!"  Mrs.  Gregory  had  been  prompt 
to  contradict.  "She's  a  Gregory  down  to  her  toes." 

Grandfather  Troy  an,  the  mad  single-taxer  who 
had  wasted  his  property  in  the  practice  of  his  theo- 
ries, was  an  ancestral  soreness  in  the  mind  of  Car- 
lotta  Gregory. 

The  music  lesson  completed,  Nora  stood  dream- 
ing by  the  drawing-room  window,  following  the 
departure  of  Charlie  Mallock,  whose  form  she  could 
see  retreating  through  the  veranda  colonnades.  At 
the  foot  of  the  steps  he  paused,  tucked  his  fiddle- 
case  under  his  arm  and  began  rolling  himself  a 
brown-paper  cigarette.  There  was  something  Gipsy 


__, Wings 21 

in  the  skill  with  which  he  managed  this,  enclosing 
the  tobacco  with  a  twist  of  his  strong,  delicate  fin- 
gers; and  as  he  stood  blowing  the  first  whiff  of 
smoke  through  his  nostrils  a  robin,  boldly  display- 
ing his  fancy  waistcoat,  came  hopping  up  to  the 
musician,  paused  and  regarded  him  in  a  friendly, 
impudent  fashion.  Charlie  Mallock  looked  down 
and  smiled  at  his  vagrant  acquaintance,  and  Nora, 
spying  upon  their  meeting,  had  a  fancy  that  he  had 
the  Piper's  gift  of  drawing  simple,  wild  things  to 
him.  His  face  was  homely,  heavy  and  irregular; 
but  something  had  breathed  into  it  a  softness  and  a 
charm.  There  stood  a  common  man  whom  God 
had  chosen  to  make  uncommon.  .  .  . 

Out  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  verandah  Nora  could 
see  another  face  set  thoughtfully  upon  Charlie  Mal- 
lock. Perfectly  still,  as  she  often  lay,  under  her 
steamer  robe  of  greenish  plaid,  Aunt  Hilda  Sa- 
rodny,  life's  tragic  failure,  was  studying  the  pic- 
ture. 

"Nora,  I've  been  calling  and  calling!"  A  high 
voice  shrilled  at  her  elbow.  Glancing  guiltily 
around  the  girl  beheld  her  mother  standing  there. 
Her  lips  were  arranged  into  the  form  of  a  smile, 
but  her  pretty,  petulant  features  held  a  look  which 
Nora  recognised.  Vaguely  she  hoped  Mrs.  Greg- 
ory hadn't  seen. 

"I've  just  finished  my  music-lesson,"  the  daugh- 
ter replied  defensively. 

"That  Mallock  boy  seems  to  do  most  of  the  play- 


22  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

ing/'  Mrs.  Gregory  persisted  coldly.  "We're  not 
hiring  him  to  show  off.  You've  been  practising 
nearly  a  year  now,  darling.  It  seems  to  me  you 
ought  to  be  making  some  progress." 

"But,  Mother,  it's  something  you  can't  learn  in 
a  day  like  fancy-work.  It  takes  a  long,  long  time 

to  build  a  beautiful  temple  and "  She  paused 

on  the  verge  of  the  simile  about  the  Parthenon  and 
overalls  which  Charlie  Mallock  had  taught  her. 

"That's  a  peculiar  argument,"  sniffed  Carlotta. 
"You've  no  right  to  take  valuable  time  learning 
something  that's  going  to  monopolise  your  life.  I 
don't  want  you  to  get  yourself  involved  in  such 
nonsense." 

"Mother,  it  isn't  nonsense " 

"Don't  contradict!"  Her  eyes  bulged  with  the 
temper  she  seemed  struggling  to  control.  "Fiddling 
isn't  the  serious  business  of  life.  Your  father  and 
I  have  been  talking  the  matter  over;  we've  looked 
at  it  from  every  side.  In  the  first  place  it  isn't 
wise  for  a  delicate  young  girl  to  spend  so  many 
hours  indoors."  Mrs.  Gregory  dangled  a  diamond- 
studded  cross  which  she  swung  on  its  platinum 
chain.  "It  isn't  a  wholesome — association.  Be  sen- 
sible, Nora." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  asked  the  girl 
with  a  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart. 

"Drop  this  fiddling  business  and  take  up  some- 
thing in  its  place." 

"What?" 


Wings  23 

"You  play  a  very  poor  game  of  golf.  It  embar- 
rasses me  to  watch  the  slovenly  way  you  handle 
your  brassie.  Why  don't  you  get  an  instructor?" 

Mrs.  Gregory's  countenance  brightened  and  be- 
came kindly  as  she  offered  this  inspiration. 

"You  can  acquire  an  excellent  game  in  half  the 
time  it  takes  to  frivol  with  that,"  the  good  lady 
went  on,  pointing  a  scornful  finger  at  the  fiddle- 
box  which  reposed  in  a  corner.  "Besides,  it's  a 
wretched  extravagance.  Why  should  your  poor 
father  have  to  pay  that  common  Mallock  boy  to  en- 
ter our  house  and  fool  away  the  best  hours  of  your 
day?" 

So  this  was  the  objective  of  her  attack!  The 
common  Mallock  boy. 

"Then — then  you  want  me  to  dismiss  him  ?"  asked 
Nora,  ashamed  that  her  voice  was  trembling. 

"No.  I'll  attend  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Gregory 
with  decision. 

"Oh,  Mother!" 

But  Mrs.  Gregory  had  gone,  leaving  her  discon- 
solate daughter  alone  and  pallid  by  the  window. 
Of  course,  after  all,  her  mother  was  right.  Even 
Charlie  Mallock  himself  had  warned  her  that  she 
was  entering,  none  too  early,  upon  a  career  at  which 
very  few  had  succeeded.  There  wasn't  any  glory, 
certainly,  in  slaving  for  fifteen  years  for  the  privi- 
lege of  leading  a  third-rate  orchestra  and  entering 
great  houses  humbly,  like  a  servant,  by  a  side  door. 

How  wonderfully  that  Schumann  melody  rang  in 


24  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

her  ears  again,  even  as  she  stood  there.  Memory 
came  back  like  the  rush  of  powerful,  encircling 
wings  that  lifted  her,  lifted  her.  .  .  . 

Somewhere  in  her  soarings  in  that  purifying  up- 
per air,  Nora  thought  of  Aunt  Hilda,  alone  on  her 
verandah,  under  the  greenish  steamer  robe,  writing, 
writing  all  the  time.  Suddenly  the  girl  had  an  im- 
pulse to  go  to  her  with  that  trouble.  And  this  was 
strange,  too,  because  Nora  had  never  felt  that  urge 
before.  At  her  occasional  approaches  the  gaunt, 
broken  woman  had  shut  herself  in  behind  the  wall 
of  her  reflections.  Sometimes  she  had  come  out 
with  an  unconventional  sentence  that  had  rolled  and 
havocked  about  in  the  neat  Gregory  environment 
like  some  prehistoric  monster  at  a  garden  party. 
Aunt  Hilda  dwelt  among  them  like  a  sick,  caged 
savage ;  yet  there  was  a  wisdom  in  her,  somewhere, 
that  made  Nora  feel  herself  undeveloped,  raw  and 
colourless.  But  the  unpleasant  suggestion  of  her 
elder  relative's  life  among  the  depths  had  frightened 
her;  the  aspect  reminded  her  of  a  splendid  corpse 
that  had  arisen  from  its  cerements.  She  was  not 
sure  she  liked  Aunt  Hilda  or  that  Aunt  Hilda  liked 
her. 

Nora  at  last  opened  the  French  window  and  went 
out  on  the  porch.  Hilda  Sarodny,  leaning  reflec- 
tively back  in  her  invalid's  chair,  beside  a  high, 
white  pillar  of  the  colonnade,  dangled  a  pencil  ab- 
sent-mindedly over  the  jumble  of  papers  that  lay 
on  the  green  robe ;  and  as  the  young  girl  approached 


Wings  25 

her  the  prematurely  aged  woman  turned  her  gaunt, 
grey,  handsome  head  and  regarded  her  with  deep 
eyes  which  burned  unquenchable  fires. 

"Come  here,  dear,"  she  said  more  softly  than 
Nora  had  ever  heard  her  speak.  "Bring  up  a  chair 
and  sit  by  me." 

Nora  did  her  aunt's  bidding  and  leaned  forward 
from  her  cane  rocker,  curiously  to  regard  the  coils 
of  marked  proofs  which  twisted  across  the  sick 
woman's  lap. 

"A  lot  of  dull  pamphlets,"  Mrs.  Sarodny  ex- 
plained to  her  niece's  look  of  inquiry. 

"Then  you're  working  still,  Aunt  Hilda?"  she 
asked. 

"Not  really  working,  my  dear.  Just  an  old  wom- 
an's pottering  away  at  a  subject  which  some  peo- 
ple still  think  she  knows  something  about." 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  able  to  have  an  opin- 
ion!" cried  Nora,  reaching  down  and  picking  up 
some  sheets  which  a  small  wind  had  fluttered  to  the 
floor.  "Tell  me,  what  is  it?" 

"Contagion  among  children,"  replied  her  aunt. 
"Not  a  cheerful  subject  and  I  don't  really  know 
anything  about  it — a  little  more  than  the  doctors, 
that's  all."  She  gave  a  look  of  sad,  wise  humour  to 
her  younger  kinswoman. 

"Nora,"  she  said  after  a  space,  "I  hear  you  fid- 
dling and  scraping  in  there.  Sometimes  there  comes 
a  fine  flood  of  Chopin  and  Beethoven.  How  long 
have  you  been  at  it  ?" 


26  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Oh,  the  good  playing  isn't  mine/'  she  confessed. 
"Charlie  Mallock  really  plays.  He's  my  instructor 
— or  he  was." 

"Was?"  The  grey  eyebrows  expressed  an  in- 
terrogative. 

"Aunt  Hilda,"  spoke  the  girl  impulsively,  "I'm 
dreadfully  worried  about  my  life." 

The  old,  experienced,  sad  smile  seemed  to  yield 
comfort  to  her  trouble. 

"At  your  age?  Yes.  You  might  be."  Mrs. 
Sarodny  said  this  as  if  to  herself.  Then  she  asked 
quite  tenderly,  "Nora,  what  is  it?" 

"Mother  doesn't  want  me  to  go  on  with  my  les- 
sons any  more,"  she  explained  in  a  deadly  casual 
sort  of  way.  "It's  wrasted  money,  she  says,  and 
I  have  my  health  to  consider." 

"Health  should  be  considered,"  agreed  Aunt 
Hilda  in  her  mysterious  voice.  "You're  the  mater- 
nal type,  too.  A  few  more  years  of  play,  out  of 
doors — you  need  to  make  the  rich  blood  that  every 
normal  woman  must  give " 

Her  words  trailed  away  into  silence.  Only  her 
eyes  regarded  the  young  girl  in  their  burning  search. 

"Tell  me,  Nora,"  she  inquired,  "who  interests 
you  most — of  all  those  you  play  with?" 

"Prentiss  Crane,"  answered  Nora  without  hesita- 
tion. 

"What  about  him?    Is  he  nice?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  would  call  him  that 
— he's  so  much  more.  In  the  first  place,  Aunt,  I 


Wings  27 

think  he's  more  thoroughly  a  gentleman — no,  a 
man — than  any  one  I  have  ever  met.  He  does  his 
tricks  very  well,  like  sports  and  dancing  and  all  that 
— but  he's  solid  and  able,  too.  He's  only  a  boy  in 
the  business  world,  but  he's  proved  himself  already. 
You  see  his  father  died  when  he  was  in  college  and 
Prentiss  came  home  and  took  up  the  Crane  in- 
terests so  well  that  their  business  has  doubled  in 
less  than  three  years.  He's  square  and  brave;  his 
workmen  fairly  worship  him;  there  isn't  a  lazy 
bone  in  his  body." 

" What's  the  principal  virtue  in  your  saint?"  she 
smiled  whimsically. 

Nora  reflected  a  moment  in  her  all  too  earnest 
way. 

"He's  dependable,"  she  said  slowly.  "You  al- 
ways know  he's — there.  He's  like  a  fine,  delicate 
piece  of  masonry  that  nothing  on  earth  can  break." 

"Protection!"  The  elder  woman  almost  whis- 
pered the  word,  her  glance  fixed  on  that  separate 
atmosphere  which  seemed  to  circle  her  about.  "And 
that's  so  much!"  Then,  after  a  space  of  dream- 
ing, "Are  you  in  love  with  any  one,  Nora?" 

The  impertinence  of  the  question  would  have  an- 
gered her  in  another  person.  From  Hilda  Sarodny 
it  came  naturally,  as  if  it  were  her  right  to  know. 

"I — I  don't  think  so,"  Nora  answered  her. 

"You're  probably  not."  Hilda  folded  her  papers 
over  and  over  her  nervous  hands. 

"Aunt  Hilda,"  flashed  the  girl  suddenly,  her  red 


28  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

lips  drawn  tight  with  the  trouble  in  her  mind,  "do 
you  think  love  is — all  important — for  a  woman's 
happiness  ?" 

The  gaunt  invalid  closed  her  eyes.  Her  face,  as 
she  reposed  upon  the  pillow,  her  splendid,  hag- 
gard profile  with  its  high-bridged  nose  and  proud, 
colourless  lips  lying  perfectly  moveless,  was  like  the 
death-mask  of  some  inspired  poet  who  had  died  for 
his  song. 

She  never  answered ;  for  the  reply  she  was  con- 
templating was  thrown  into  the  realm  of  conjec- 
ture by  the  purring  approach  of  an  automobile, 
prosperous  monster,  which  came  smoothly  around 
the  driveway  and  halted  at  the  steps  between  the  tall 
pillars. 

Nora  rose  with  a  wholesome  cry  of  greeting.  A 
tall,  summer-clad  young  man  emerged  from  the  ton- 
neau  and  came  bounding  to  the  verandah. 

"Hello,  Prenny!" 

"Hello,  Nora !  Want  to  go  over  to  Green  Acre 
for  the  tennis  ?"  His  strong,  blond  face  pinking  to 
the  joyousness  of  the  occasion,  he  gave  her  hand  a 
friendly  squeeze.  Was  love  necessary  ?  she  was  still 
asking  herself  as  she  smiled  up  at  him  and  gloried  in 
that  feeling  of  protection  which  he  always  seemed  to 
bring  to  her. 

"Come  meet  my  aunt,"  she  was  saying. 

"Your  aunt?"     He  looked  inquiringly. 

A  few  strides  further  up  the  porch  he  was  bend- 


Wings  29 

ing  over  the  sick  woman  while  Nora  Gregory  was 
saying : 

"Aunt  Hilda,  this  is  Mr.  Crane." 

For  a  week  after  that  broken  interview  Aunt 
Hilda  had  held  her  peace,  sitting  patiently  in  her 
corner,  working,  working  at  those  foolish  proofs 
which  seemed  to  claim  all  her  attention.  Once, 
when  she  had  fallen  in  a  spell  of  weakness  and  had 
been  helped  to  bed,  the  broken  woman  had  called 
for  her  niece.  She  only  wanted  the  girl  to  sit  by 
her  a  while,  she  said;  and  when  Nora  had  shown 
a  tendency  to  renew  the  subject  which  wks  now  dis- 
tracting her  mind,  colouring  her  every  thought,  Aunt 
Hilda  interrupted  with  a  rough  remark : 

"We're  all  born  free,  my  dear.  Each  to  Hell  by 
his  own  chosen  path,  according  to  his  lights  and  lik- 
ings." 

Then  she  had  turned  wearily  under  the  bedclothes 
and  Nora  had  gone  her  way  a  little  hurt. 

Not  a  word  had  Nora  heard  of  Charlie  Mallock 
since  his  abrupt  dismissal.  It  was  quite  natural  he 
should  make  no  sign.  Her  mother  had,  apparently, 
plainly  outlined  to  the  young  man  his  status  in  ex- 
clusive households.  Nora  thoroughly  understood 
how  his  pride  would  hold  him  forever  now  away 
from  her.  It  would  have  to  come  sooner  or  later, 
and  this  way  was  no  harsher  than  another. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  Hester  Wainwright's 
luncheon  that  Nora  stole  away  and  telephoned;  a 


30  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

shocking  thing  to  do,  she  realised.  And  when,  from 
the  drug-store  booth  into  which  she  had  guiltily 
stolen,  she  got  the  number  of  his  boarding  house, 
she  entertained  a  terrified  hope  that  he  would  not 
be  in. 

"Just  a  minute !"  squalled  a  rough,  feminine  voice 
at  the  other  end.  High  up,  somewhere,  there  came 
to  the  ear  she  held  to  the  receiver  the  wild,  uplift- 
ing quaver,  thrill  and  ecstasy  of  "The  Prophet 
Bird."  He  was  playing  it  in  his  room!  Those 
wings  were  beating  against  the  walls  of  the  poor 
chamber  where  he  slept!  In  mid-bar  the  music 
ceased.  A  moment  later  she  heard  him  speak. 

"Hello!"     His  voice  sounded  very  grim. 

"Hello,  Charlie.    This  is  Nora." 

"Oh.  Hello,  Nora."  The  very  receiver  seemed 
to  blush  with  embarrassment. 

"Charlie — I  only  wanted  to  say  I  was  sorry — oh, 
isn't  there  some  place  where  we  can  really  talk?" 

All  this  with  an  astonishing,  brazen  boldness  that 
imparted  a  peculiar  tang. 

"But,  Nora — I  say,  do  you  think  we'd  better?" 
The  note  was  undoubtedly  severe. 

"Well — maybe  not.  Good-bye !"  She  was  about 
to  shut  him  off  in  petulant  haste  when  she  heard  his 
relenting  proviso. 

"Nora — wait  a  minute!  There's  a  concert  room 
at  Mozart  Hall.  You  know  where  it  is.  It  would 
be  quiet  at  this  time  of  day.  I — I  want  awfully  to 
see  you — if  you  think  it's  all  right " 


Wings  31 

"I'll  go  right  over  there.  Good-bye."  She  said 
it  hastily,  for  fear  her  emboldened  mood  might  de- 
sert her,  leaving  her  stranded  in  the  booth. 

In  a  sort  of  happy  nightmare  she  flew  to  the  cor- 
ner and  signalled  a  red  trolley  car  with  the  label 
"Glenn  Street"  over  the  motorman's  cage. 

Alighting  somewhat  beyond  the  centre  of  Welles- 
ville's  booming  heart,  Nora  walked  a  block  inland  to 
one  of  Glenn  Street's  tributaries,  a  shabby  jumble 
of  third-rate  shops;  and  at  last  she  faced  the  lead- 
coloured  monstrosity  which  bore  the  unilluminated 
electric  motto  "Mozart  Hall"  over  the  arched  en- 
trance. The  stairs  were  wide  and  battered  with 
strips  of  zinc  dangling  loose  from  at  least  half 
the  steps.  On  the  first  landing  there  was  a  closed 
window  with  a  shelf  underneath  and  the  label  "Tick- 
ets" above;  but  these  signs  of  publicity  seemed  to 
echo  out  of  a  dead  past,  for  the  silence  of  an 
Egyptian  tomb  pervaded  the  place  and  the  vast, 
empty  hall  which  Nora  spied  beyond  a  double  door 
was  filled  with  a  sort  of  artificial  twilight.  She 
had  been  there  once  or  twice  to  attend  perform- 
ances of  a  struggling  symphony  orchestra,  but  she 
had  never  before  been  absolutely  alone  in  the  place, 
deserted  like  this.  It  imparted  a  fearful  ecstasy. 

At  last,  hesitating,  she  tiptoed  into  the  hall  and 
looked  around.  The  rough  chairs,  which  seated 
their  audiences  by  night,  were  piled  in  ugly  pyra- 
mids along  the  sides  of  the  room.  Several  tables 
stood  huddled  in  a  corner  under  beer  advertise- 


32  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

ments  that  cast  their  lures  in  vain.  She  ventured 
further  in.  Awesomely  she  approached  the  little 
stage  whose  gaudy,  dirty-white  and  sky-blue  conch- 
shell  seemed  yearning  monstrously  for  popular  con- 
certs to  fill  its  maw.  Skeleton  forms  of  steel  mu- 
sic-racks faced  her  from  the  stage.  In  a  corner  two 
bass  viols  and  a  'cello,  swaddled  in  their  black  oil- 
cloth covers,  wore  a  grim,  funereal  air. 

Close  to  this  ugly  fane  Nora  paused  and  held  her 
breath.  She  was  here,  unattended,  in  the  Workshop 
of  the  Gods !  To  this  spot  inspired  men  came  daily 
to  work  out  their  dreams  together.  The  place 
smelled  of  stale  beer  and  old  cigars.  There  was 
a  sort  of  fascinating  aroma  to  it.  ... 

She  heard  his  footsteps  coming  toward  her 
through  the  big  double  door.  A  yard  behind  her 
they  hesitated  and  then  stopped  altogether.  She 
turned  around. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  late,"  he  began  awkwardly.  His 
face  seemed  to  blur  before  her  in  the  peculiar  light 
of  the  room — to  blur  and  take  on  radiance. 

"Oh!  I  think  I  was  early,"  she  made  vague  re- 
ply. "Where  shall  we  go?" 

"Anywhere.  We're  perfectly  alone  here  until  six, 
when  they  begin  arranging  chairs  for  the  evening." 
He  never  looked  straight  at  her,  not  for  an  instant. 

"Over  here."  Suiting  action  to  words  she  chose 
a  seat  in  a  small  recess  by  the  stage.  He  came 
rather  slowly  and  sat  beside  her. 

"Charlie,"  she  began,  breaking  the  double  silence 


Wings 33 

of  the  room,  "I  couldn't  let  you  go  like  that. 
You're  offended,  aren't  you?" 

"My  dear — Nora!"  He  cleared  his  throat  and 
then  went  on.  "Why  should  I  be  offended?" 

"I  was  afraid  Mother  might  have  been  abrupt 
and  harsh.  Charlie,  don't  take  anything  she  said 
to  heart.  She  can't  understand — 

"Oh,  yes."  He  laughed  bitterly.  "She  under- 
stands all  right.  Too  well.  That's  the  trouble  with 
the  whole  situation;  your  Mother's  right — horribly 
right." 

"What  did  she  tell  you?"  inquired  Nora,  in  her 
eagerness  bending  forward. 

"You  ought  to  know,"  he  went  on  inexorably, 
"that  it's  inexpedient  for  a  girl  of  your  class  to  take 
this  thing  too  seriously.  Nora,  I've  wanted  to  say 
it;  frankly  I've  wanted  to  tell  you." 

"What?"  she  whispered,  never  taking  her  eyes 
from  his  rugged,  emotional  face. 

"Any  big  thing,  art  or  bridge-building  or  inven- 
tion, has  got  to  be  a  part  of  you — got  to  be  lived 
with.  And,  Nora !"  The  mantle  of  reserve  sudden- 
ly fell  from  him. ,  "You're  too  real  to  make  a  par- 
lour trick  of  the  beautiful  thing  we've  been  learning 
together.  And  that's  all  they'll  let  you  do  with  it, 
I'm  afraid.  It  would  be  sickening  to  see  you  per- 
forming like  a  lady-like  amateur,  shoved  forward 
by  your  mother  to  entertain  a  lot  of  tea-drinkers 
who  will,  of  course,  be  expected  to  say  that  you're 
worlds  finer  than  Mischa  Elman.  It's  better  to  break 


34  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

your  bow  across  your  knee  and  take  to  knitting  than 
to  be  that  sort  of  laughable  little  counterfeit.  Ama- 
teurs! They're  the  scum  of  art!" 

"I  couldn't  be  that,  Charlie,"  she  exclaimed  in  the 
same  still  voice. 

"God  knows  you  couldn't,  Nora!"  His  heavy 
face  seemed  to  blaze  as  he  said  it.  "I've  had  fool- 
ish ideas  about  you,  Nora — a  nonsensical  something 
I  wanted  to  make  of  you." 

"Tell  me,"  she  pled,  but  his  eyes  were  stonily 
averted. 

"If  I  could  help  you — but  there!  I  hinder.  I 
spoil  your  life  by  mixing  you  into  something  you're 
not  intended  for.  And  that's  why  I've  decided  to 
get  out — a  little  further  out  than  I  am  already." 

He  arose  and,  bending  over  her,  extended  a  hand 
which,  even  in  her  excitement,  she  admired  for  the 
thousand  little  skilful  pads  of  muscle  which  seemed 
a-quiver  for  action  along  the  palm  and  fingers. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Charlie?"  she  asked,  looking 
up  at  him,  never  moving. 

"To-day  is  Tuesday.  Thursday  I  leave  for  New 
York.  I've  been  offered  a  small  position  there, 
playing  second  fiddle  in  a  theatrical  orchestra,  and 
I've  decided  to  take  it.  It'll  be  healthier  for  me, 
Nora — and  for  you." 

She  felt  his  hand  holding  hers  in  a  farewell  shake, 
but  it  was  as  though  that  member  were  far  away 
and  she  were  watching  it  in  a  dream. 

"Good-bye,  Nora,"  he  was  saying  gruffly. 


Wings 35 

"Good-bye,  Charlie."  That  was  all.  She  could 
see  him  turn  quickly  and  walk  toward  the  door. 
Just  a  few  paces  to  the  door  leading  to  the  street. 
That  was  life's  rough  method  of  tearing  apart  the 
fabric  of  dreams. 

"Charlie !"  she  cried  wildly,  rising  and  going  to- 
ward him.  She  never  knew  what  brought  them  to- 
gether in  that  rush  of  spirit  and  of  light.  Caution, 
convention,  the  heavy  frowns  of  the  world,  were 
utterly  forgotten,  obliterated  just  as  her  eyes  were 
blinded  against  his  breast. 

"Nora,  Nora!''  was  all  he  said  as  he  held  her  close 
and  her  arms  went  around  his  neck. 

"Don't  go  without  me!"  she  was  pleading. 
"Don't  ever  leave  me!  Take  me — teach  me,  my 
dear,  my  dear !" 

How  in  that  flash  of  time  the  bud  had  opened 
to  the  full-blown  flower! 

The  big,  round  clock  over  the  ticket  window  was 
pointing  to  a  quarter  of  six  when  they  came  down 
the  wide  stairs  together.  Armies  of  gorgeous 
dreams  were  warring  in  her  heart.  At  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  she  looked  once,  shyly,  at  the  man  who 
was  now,  to  her,  beautiful  and  exalted. 

"Don't  worry,"  she  was  telling  him. 

"But  Nora.  They'll  talk  to  you.  They'll  use  all 
the  power  on  earth — they'll  tell  you  the  truth. 
They'll  show  you  how  crazy  it  all  is  and  what  a  wild 


36  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

risk  you're  taking.  They'll  have  all  the  arguments 
on  their  side,  dear  girl." 

"Don't  worry !"  she  repeated  and  went  fluttering 
away. 

From  her  invalid's  chair  on  the  verandah  Aunt 
Hilda  watched  her  curiously,  she  thought,  as  she 
went  bravely  in  between  the  great  pillars  of  the 
Gregory  house.  Her  mother  surged  out  from  the 
shadows  of  the  living-room,  every  muscle  tightened 
with  disapproval. 

"Nora,  where  have  you  been?"  she  asked.  Her 
voice,  though  controlled,  revealed  the  hysterical  tem- 
per she  was  holding  back.  Then,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  "Don't  lie  to  me.  I've  been  in- 
formed. You've  been  with  that — that  Mallock 
boy." 

Nora  was  surprised  at  her  own  calm.  Should 
she  tell  the  truth? 


ii 

Hilda  Sarodny,  from  her  reclining  chair  at  the 
corner  of  the  verandah,  saw  Harrison  Gregory 
coming  home  at  an  unusual  hour.  It  was  on  the 
day  after  she  had  heard  Nora's  encounter  with 
her  mother  at  the  door  and  the  air  seemed  charged 
with  perplexities.  From  her  point  of  vantage  Hilda 
watched  the  approach  of  the  man  who  had  once 
loved  her,  now  a  stout,  well-poised,  worldly  figure. 
But  this  afternoon  there  was  a  hesitation  in  his  car- 


Wings 37 

riage;  nothing  definite,  but  the  suggestion  of  an 
unpleasant  duty  ahead.  His  florid,  eupeptic  face 
with  its  close-cropped  moustache  seemed  to  have 
relaxed  itself  into  the  unaccustomed  lines  of  reflec- 
tion. He  glanced  up  at  Hilda  as  he  passed  and, 
smiling,  gave  her  his  usual  kindly,  short,  non-com- 
mittal bow,  then  went  into  the  house. 

This  had  been  about  the  extent  of  their  social  re- 
lations since  Hilda  had  taken  up  her  abode  here. 
A  perfunctory  bow,  a  guarded  smile  in  passing. 
Could  this  be  the  man  who,  after  her  last  tempestu- 
ous scene  with  him,  had  vowed  that  she  had  crushed 
the  life  out  of  him?  No.  It  was  evident  that  men 
who  live  without  love  get  on  just  as  well — a  little 
better,  perhaps. 

This  part  of  the  endless  reverie  into  which  Hil- 
da's life  had  sunk  lasted  for,  perhaps,  a  half  hour. 
The  creaking  of  a  screen  door  recalled  her  to  her- 
self, and,  looking  up,  she  saw  it  was  Harrison  Greg- 
ory who  was  standing  by  her  chair. 

"I  was  looking  for  Carlotta,"  he  explained  with 
distinct  politeness. 

"I  think  she's  still  at  Mrs.  Meade's,"  Hilda  told 
him.  "She  took  the  children  to  a  party  there. 
Nora's  upstairs." 

"Yes.  I've  seen  her."  Gregory  bit  off  each 
grudging  syllable  of  the  admission,  and  Hilda  knew 
that  he  was  merely  feeling  for  an  opening.  He 
strolled  half  way  across  the  verandah,  chose  a  cane 
rocker  and  began  dragging  it  toward  her. 


38  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Hilda/'  he  said,  sitting  down,  "I  want  to  ask 
a  favour  of  you." 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  queried,  carefully  regard- 
ing him. 

"A  great  deal,  if  you  will,"  said  he  and  nervously 
twisted  the  seal  ring  on  a  fat  finger.  "It's  about 
Nora."  He  swallowed  hard  upon  the  word. 

"Oh,"  said  Hilda  Sarodny. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  know  it,"  he  went 
on,  hurrying  his  speech  in  the  rapid  rush  of  confi- 
dence, "but  Nora  has  given  us  a  lot  of  trouble. 
She's  got  more  brains  and  imagination  than  all  the 
other  children  put  together,  but  that  has  not  always 
been  the  danger.  Sometimes  she's  as  wild  as  a 
hawk.  She's  never  been  contented  with  the  things 
she  ought  to  know  and  do.  Ever  since  she  was  a 
little  thing — so  high — she's  been  crazy  to  write 
poetry  or  draw  pictures.  Queer  children  have 
amused  her.  She  seems  to  be  born  without  any  idea 
of  her  own  class.  Do  you  understand?"  He  looked 
straight  at  her,  accusingly,  she  thought. 

"I  think  I  do."     She  looked  straight  back. 

"About  a  year  ago  she  found  her  metier  was 
music.  Her  mother  and  I  have  been  liberal  with 
her  education  in  the  matter  of  the  piano;  for  we 
think  a  knowledge  of  music  adds  to  a  girl's  social 
graces,  if  she  takes  it  sensibly,  in  moderation.  But 
Nora  isn't  moderate  about  anything.  The  thing 
seemed  to  bring  something  out  in  her — something, 
I've  alwavs  dreaded  to  see." 


• Wings 39 

"Just  what?"  inquired  Hilda  Sarodny,  still  study- 
ing the  man. 

"A  sort  of  breaking  away  from  the  conventions, 
to  put  it  mildly.  She  began  to  lose  all  interest  in 
the  things  other  people — real  people — do.  She  took 
to  slumming  about  in  grubby  concerts,  meeting  all 
sorts  of  strange  beings.  At  last  she  used  her  power 
of  persuasion  upon  her  mother — and  Nora  has  the 
gift  of  persuasion — to  let  her  take  violin  lessons. 
We  didn't  know  what  it  meant  at  the  time.  We 
hadn't  the  least  suspicion  that  that  fellow  Mallock 
would  dare  look  twice  at  our  daughter." 

"Ah.     So  that's  it?"  commented  Hilda  softly. 

"Hilda,"  said  Harrison  Gregory,  his  voice  gain- 
ing power  as  he  turned  to  the  important  theme. 
"You  know  what  the  step — the  wrong  step — can 
mean  to  a  woman's  life." 

"Yes,"  she  replied  shortly. 

"I  am  a  broad-minded  man,  I  think.  I  have  no 
objections  to  my  girl's  meeting  and  learning  from 
Gipsies  and  Bohemians.  If  she  has  it  in  her  blood, 
let  her  get  over  it  while  she's  young  and  turn  to 
— the  more  serious  things  of  life.  You  know  what 
I  mean." 

"Yes.  Home  and  property  and  children.  I  think 
we  discussed  that  years  ago." 

"A  mistake  in  marriage  is  like  acquiring  an  incur- 
able disease.  Nothing  in  the  world  can  remedy  what 
is  done." 

"Nothing  but  death,"  she  agreed  sadly. 


4O  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"You  mustn't  think  I've  come  to  open  old  wounds, 
Hilda.  No  one  in  the  world  would  care  less  to  do 

that "  For  an  instant  his  reddened,  fattened 

face  assumed,  to  her  imagining,  the  look  it  had 
worn  a  score  of  years  ago  when  she  had  told  him 
the  truth  about  her  aspirations.  Then  it  hardened  to 
its  worldly  uses  and  he  went  on.  "The  past  is  dead, 
except  for  its  influence  on  a  living  generation. 
Hilda,  do  you  like  Nora?" 

"I  love  her  very  much,"  replied  the  woman,  rais- 
ing to  him  her  deep,  burning  eyes. 

"I  care  more  for  her  than  for  all  the  rest,"  he 
confessed  with  a  sudden  break  in  his  voice.  "And 
that's  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

"Why?" 

"Hilda,  you  ought  to  love  her.  She  was  born  at  a 
time — when  you  were  still  a  great  sorrow  to  me. 
She  is  more  like  you  than  my  other  children.  She 
has  your  way  of  looking  at  and  through  things  and 
seeing  too  dangerously  far.  She  seems  to  speak 

your  thoughts  sometimes.  And  that's  why " 

He  paused  and  rubbed  the  bare  spot  over  his  tem- 
ples. " — why  I  think  you  are  the  only  one  who  can 
save  her." 

"I?    How?" 

"Perhaps  you  have  guessed  it.  She  has  gone  per- 
fectly mad  over  that  foolish  fiddler,  Mallock.  She 
came  home  yesterday  declaring  that  she  was  deter- 
mined to  marry  him.  She  was  very  gentle  about  it 
— she  always  is  when  her  mind's  made  up.  But 


Wings  41 

nothing  on  earth  Carlotta  or  I  can  say  will  have  the 
least  influence  on  her.  She's  of  legal  age  and  has  a 
right  to  do  as  she  pleases.  Of  course  we  could  take 
her  away  somewhere."  Gregory  reflected  a  moment 
upon  this  expedient.  "But  that  wouldn't  change 
her  heart.  She's  on  the  brink,  I  tell  you.  At  any  in- 
stant she  may  take  the  plunge  that  may  ruin  her, 
crush  her  for  life  like " 

In  an  understanding  flash  he  looked  at  the  wreck 
of  a  woman  in  the  invalid's  chair.  But  Hilda  Sa- 
,rodny  was  thinking,  "That's  the  way  we  do  it  when 
we're  young." 

"You  mean,"  she  said  aloud,  fixing  clear  eyes 
upon  his  trouble,  "that  you  don't  want  her  to  make 
the  same  mistake  that  I  did." 

He  nodded. 

"You  know,  Harry,"  she  argued,  clinging  to  an 
old  conviction,  "that  a  love  which  ventures  into  the 
unknown  doesn't  always  batter  to  pieces.  Her  fid- 
dler may  be  a  genius.  She's  taking  a  heroic  chance 
in  him.  He  may  surpass  us  all." 

There  came  into  Harrison  Gregory's  face  that 
same  intolerance  which  she  had  striven  vainly  to 
destroy  in  the  days  when  she  knew  no  better. 

"There's  no  future  in  that  sort  of  nonsense,"  he 
blustered,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair. 

"Well  ?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  she  asked 
in  her  low,  deliberate  voice. 

"I've  just  had  a  long  talk  with  Nora,"  he  said 


42  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

with  renewed  eagerness.  "She  seems  to  be  in  a  con- 
fused state  of  mind.  She's  been  playing  ducks  and 
drakes  with  Prentiss  Crane  and  he  thinks — poor 
devil — that  she's  going  to  marry  him.  A  woman 
hasn't  any  right  to  do  that  to  a  man.  She  knows 
he'll  give  her  happiness  of  the  right  kind ;  she  admits 
as  much.  But  that  fly-by-night  Mallock  has  drawn 
her  into  a  fog.  She  shows  plainly  enough  that  she 
hasn't  any  feeling  of  security  in  her  infatuation — 
how  on  earth  could  she  have?  She's  wavering  in 
the  balance,  Hilda.  And  I  want  you  to  give  her  a 
shove  in  the  right  direction." 

"How?"  asked  Hilda  Sarodny. 

"I  got  her  to  promise  me  that  she'd  come  to  you," 
he  half  explained.  "You  must  let  her  see  you." 

"As  a  sort  of  horrible  example  to  the  young?" 
There  was  bitterness  in  her  smile. 

"That's  putting  it  rather  broadly.  But,  Hilda, 
you  and  I  can  afford  to  admit  that  your  life  has 
been  neither  serene  nor  happy.  You  have  made 
your  mistake  and  it's  over.  And  I've  come  to  ask 
you,  if  you  ever  cared  anything  for  me,  if  you  want 
to  save  your  sister  from  an  everlasting  sorrow,  if 
you've  got  any  pity  for  the  girl  who's  enough  like 
you  to  be  your  own  daughter,  let  her  come  to  you." 

"This  seems  a  strange  work  for  me  to  under- 
take," Hilda  answered  faintly. 

"It's  plain  human  justice,"  he  growled,  holding 
her  sternly  with  his  eyes.  "Remember  that.  Your 


Wings 43 

mistake  made  a  mess  of  my  life  as  well  as  yours. 
If  you  want  to  make  amends,  in  part,  for  what  you 
did  to  me,  do  your  duty  by  my  daughter  now." 

"In  what  way?"  Her  smooth  voice  broke,  for 
the  first  time,  into  an  invalid's  quaver. 

"I  want  you  to  talk  to  Nora  frankly  about  your 
life.  I  know  she'll  abide  by  what  you  say.  Give 
her  every  detail  of  your  marriage  with  Sarodny. 
Don't  sweeten  it  with  fine  words.  Tell  her  just 
what  happens  to  a  girl  who  gives  up  everything  to 
make  a  wild,  headstrong,  unsuccessful,  romantic 
marriage." 

She  lay  silent  so  long  that  the  man  beside  her 
was  obliged  to  rouse  her  by  the  nervous  hand  he  lay 
upon  her  arm. 

"I'll  do  it,"  she  whispered,  never  raising  her  lids; 
but  a  great  pity  for  him,  for  herself,  for  this  un- 
happy world,  was  swelling  in  her  poor,  beaten  heart. 

"You  owe  it  to  me/'  he  said  in  a  sad  and  simple 
way,  as  he  arose. 

"Yes.    To  you  and  to  Carlotta." 

"And  you  promise  me,  earnestly,  that  you'll  put 
no  sugar  coating  on  your  story?  You  swear  to  do 
everything  in  your  power  to  keep  her  with  us  ?" 

"I  promise."  Her  response  was  fluttering  and 
far  away,  but  as  distinct  to  his  ears  as  any  shout. 

"Then  we'll  win,  between  us !"  he  cried,  laying  his 
warm  hand  over  her  cold  fingers  in  a  sort  of  exulta- 
tion. 


44  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

With  every  thought  for  the  conditions  of  her  in- 
validism  Mrs.  Gregory  had  given  Hilda  a  wide,  airy 
bedroom  on  the  ground  floor,  easily  accessible  to 
the  verandah  by  a  high  French  window  through 
which  she  could  pass  with  the  minimum  of  exertion 
from  her  chair  to  her  bed.  It  was  to  this  room  that 
she  repaired  early  after  her  interview  with  her 
brother-in-law,  for  such  a  sickening  weakness  had 
come  over  her  that  she  had  scarcely  gained  her  bed- 
side before  she  fell  across  the  counterpane.  She 
lay  there  inertly,  never  moving  until  the  shadows 
began  lengthening  on  the  patch  of  lawn  visible  from 
her  window.  Then  she  was  conscious  of  Carlotta 
Gregory's  high,  tyrannical  words,  dissonant  upon 
Nora's  soft  replies,  somewhere  outside  in  the  hall. 
Carlotta  was,  evidently,  back  from  her  party. 

Hilda  rang  for  a  maid  to  undress  her ;  and  when 
she  was  settled  limply  between  the  sheets,  her  mind 
turned  again  to  Harrison  Gregory's  strange  request. 
Like  a  brand  snatched,  too  late,  from  the  burning, 
she  was  to  flare  a  horrid  beacon  to  a  tender  twig,  al- 
ready wind-blown  toward  that  same  conflagration ! 
The  sick  woman  brought  tired  eyes  to  a  survey  of 
the  room  with  its  peacock  blue  hangings,  expensive 
Chinese  rugs,  delicate  chintzes,  ivory  panelling  and 
the  nicely  matched  splendours  of  chairs  and  dress- 
ing-tables. What  folly  was  this  her  niece  was  un- 
dertaking? she  asked  herself.  What  dream  can  be 
delightful  in  a  cheap  iron  bed  with  an  outlook  upon 
a  tenement  backyard  ?  Harrison  Gregory  had  asked 


Wings 45 

her  to  tell  Nora  what  she  knew.  And  she  knew — 
God,  how  she  knew ! 

She  ate  the  ghost  of  a  dinner,  alone  in  bed.  Car- 
lotta  seldom  came  near  her,  save  in  the  matter  of 
obvious  duty.  Nora,  too,  had  made  no  sign  as  to 
her  promised  visit  for  advice.  At  eight  o'clock  two 
of  the  children,  Helen  and  Peter,  called  to  say  their 
customary  punctilious  good  night.  Then  they  were 
gone  and  Hilda  was  again  alone.  During  the  eve- 
ning she  could  hear  callers,  merrily  matching  basso 
against  treble  as  they  gossiped  in  the  living-room. 
Over  the  tall,  white  mantel  a  beautiful  Dresden 
clock  ticked  off  the  hours.  Nine,  nine-thirty,  ten. 
The  visitors  went  laughing  down  the  steps.  Then 
Carlotta's  knock  at  the  door  proclaimed  that  person- 
age. 

"Good  night,  my  dear/'  purred  Mrs.  Gregory, 
coolly  pecking  the  white,  blue-veined  brow.  "I  hope 
you  sleep  well." 

"Thank  you,  Carlotta,"  said  Hilda.  "Good  night." 

There  was  no  hint  of  family  trouble  apparent  in 
Carlotta's  handsome  presence.  The  routine  of  the 
house  was  being  observed,  as  usual,  its  punctilios 
respected.  Nora  came  in  a  few  minutes  later. 

"Good  night,  Aunt,"  she  bade  her,  bending  over 
and  enclosing  those  cold  fingers  within  her  two  ar- 
dent hands.  Spots  of  red  were  burning  in  the 
smooth  oval  of  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  were  violet 
like  a  tropic  sea  trembling  silently,  just  before  the 
hurricane. 


46  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Good  night — my  dear,  dear  girl — good  night!" 

Mrs.  Sarodny  retained  her  fingers,  even  though 
her  niece  had  made  a  movement  toward  departure. 

"Nora,  won't  you  come  and  confide  in  your  poor 
old  aunt  sometime  again,  as  you  did  ?"  plead  Hilda 
humbly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will.  Good  night,  you  darling.  Oh !" 
Suddenly  the  girl  had  rushed  back  to  her  and  en- 
twined the  frail  body  in  strong  young  arms.  "Oh, 
I  love  you  so.  Good  night." 

That  was  all.  For  Nora  had  run  quickly  out  of 
the  room  and  swung  the  door  behind  her.  Not  a 
word  of  what  she  had  promised  her  father.  No 
hint  of  her  quavering  resolutions.  Just  an  impul- 
sive embrace  and  good  night. 

"Perhaps  she  has  changed  her  mind,"  mused 
Hilda  Sarodny  as  she  fell  into  the  light  doze  of  in- 
validism. 

There  was  a  public  clock  somewhere  in  the  moon- 
lit world  outside,  which  struck  the  hours.  It  had 
been  Hilda's  habit  to  lie  half-wakeful  during  the 
night  to  catch  the  first  peals  of  that  distant,  mysteri- 
ous bell.  To-night,  when  it  tolled  one,  she  was 
waiting  for  it ;  and  it  roused  her  to  turn  her  head  to- 
ward the  long  window  until  her  tired  eyes  were  fas- 
tened upon  the  clear,  greenish  light,  pouring  through 
the  classic  whiteness  of  the  verandah  pillars. 

Suddenly  the  nocturne  became  dramatic  with  that 
intelligence  and  movement  which  the  human  item 


Wings  47 

imparts  to  mere  scenery.  A  tall,  slight,  dark  figure 
swayed  forward  against  the  nearest  column,  stood 
outlined  in  contrast  to  its  magical  pallor.  The  vigi- 
lant, cloaked  form  turned  once  in  an  attitude  of  lis- 
tening and  a  slim  arm  went  up  to  a  face  which  was 
invisible  in  the  vague  atmosphere. 

In  an  instant  Hilda  Sarodny,  magnetised  beyond 
the  mere  weakness  of  her  flesh,  drew  herself  up  to 
a  sitting  posture,  arose  from  bed,  flew  to  the  win- 
dow and  opened  it  with  trembling  hands. 

"Nora!"  she  whispered  softly.  The  figure  turned 
slowly  and  the  vague,  ghostly  eyes  were  upon  her. 

"Nora !"  she  whispered  again.  The  girl  wavered, 
then  came  toward  her  until  her  face  was  less  than  a 
foot  from  Hilda  Sarodny's. 

"You're  not — not  going  away  with  him — now?" 

"Yes,  Aunt,"  she  replied  in  a  still  voice. 

"Without  talking  to  me  first?" 

"I — I  wanted  to — but  it  was  so  hard.  Let  me 
go — he's  waiting." 

"Nora,  dear,  didn't  you  promise?  Didn't  you 
promise  your  father  you  would  come  to  me?"  She 
reached  out  and  lightly  touched  the  arm  which 
stretched  tight  to  the  fingers  that  gripped  a  travel- 
ling bag. 

"But,  Aunt "  she  faltered. 

"Come  and  talk  to  me,"  commanded  the  elder 
woman,  and  the  girl  followed  her  through  the 
French  window  into  the  pale,  serene  room. 

"Tuck  me  in,  dear,"  said  Hilda,  wearily  sinking 


48  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

into  the  bed.  Her  face  was  livid  and  her  teeth 
were  chattering  with  the  cold.  And  when  the  quilt 
was  drawn  tightly  around  her  she  went  on,  "sit 
down  on  the  bed,  Nora.  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing." 

The  girl  leaned  one  arm  across  her  aunt's  form; 
their  faces  were  close  together  and  they  conversed 
in  whispers. 

"Nora,  are  you  sure  you  have  made  your  choice  ?" 
asked  Hilda  Sarodny. 

"I— I  think  so,  Aunt." 

"You  think  so.  And  because  you  think  so  you're 
stealing  away  like  a  thief  in  the  night  to  go  to  him. 
Nora,  couldn't  you  love  Prentiss  Crane?" 

"I  might,"  she  replied.  Her  fine  brows,  always 
a-wing  with  her  emotions,  came  together  perplex- 
edly. "But,  Aunt — love  isn't  everything  to " 

"To  what?"  breathed  Hilda  gently. 

"To  Love,  I  suppose.  Prentiss  will  give  me  pro- 
tection, a  sort  of  serene  happiness — but  he  can't  give 
me — that."  Her  arm  swept  out  in  a  gesture  which 
seemed  to  include  the  whole  world  of  moonlight  and 
magic  and  charm. 

"With  Prentiss,"  said  Hilda,  "there  will  be  no 
morning  of  misery  and  pain.  He  will  make  you 
what  your  mother  and  father  have  brought  you  into 
the  world  to  be;  the  mother  of  children  good  and 
pure  and  happy,  like  yourself." 

The  death-like  face  on  the  pillow  regarded  for  a 
long  time  the  drooping,  hesitant  figure  of  the  girl 


Wings  49 

"He'd  give  me  that,"  whispered  Nora  at  last. 

"Before  you  do  anything  final,"  went  on  Hilda 
rapidly,  "I  want  to  tell  you  about  myself.  Look  on 
the  scarecrow,  Nora,  and  be  afraid."  Hilda  Sa- 
rodny  paused  a  moment  and  clenched  her  teeth 
against  the  physical  torment  that  was  eating  her 
life  away.  "When  I  was  your  age  I  was  so  like  you 
that  the  very  sight  of  you,  sometimes,  seems  a  mem- 
ory of  my  girlhood.  I  was  promised  to  a  splendid 
man  who  loved  me.  You  needn't  know  his  name." 

"I  know,"  replied  Nora  quietly. 

"But  when  he  promised  me  the  greatest  gifts  in 
his  power  and  surrounded  me  with  strength,  an- 
other song  was  singing  in  my  heart.  I  was  thirsty 
for  the  indefinite  things  I  had  never  experienced.  I 
wanted  to  hear  the  blue  bird's  song  in  another  sky. 
You  see,  I  was  a  wild,  headstrong  girl.  I  didn't 
crave  just  happiness.  I  wanted  to  touch  the  hem 
of  Life/'  Hilda  Sarodny  was  again  silent.  "Hands 
wither  that  touch  that  hem  too  long,"  she  said. 

"But  just  love  isn't  all  there  is  to  Love,  as  you 
say.  This  first  man  in  my  life — I  idealised  him  so, 
I  wanted  him  to  understand  my  dreams.  Strong 
men  are  often  like  iron  bars — built  to  hold;  there 
is  no  give  to  them.  One  day  I  told  him  that,  when 
we  were  married,  I  expected  him  to  permit  me  the 
liberty  of  seeing  the  world,  of  going  out  and  doing 
some  sort  of  work  that  would  satisfy  my  instinct 
for  freedom.  He  listened  as  though  I  were  con- 
fessing pome  shameful  vice.  He  answered  in  such 


50  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

a  tone  that  I  saw  in  a  flash  how  little  he  knew  me. 
And  that  was  my  end,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

"Phillip  Sarodny,  a  charming,  irresponsible  edi- 
torial writer  on  the  Herald,  had  accepted  and  ad- 
mired some  of  my  short  articles.  I  knew  exactly 
how  he  lived;  how  his  habits  were  irregular,  how 
he  wasn't  too  careful  about  his  debts ;  but  he  could 
see — God,  how  far  he  could  see!  When  I  rushed 
to  his  arms,  almost  literally,  after  my  parting  with 
the  other  man,  he  seemed  to  look  like  an  eagle,  down 
into  the  labyrinth  of  myself.  It  was  a  mad,  hur- 
ried, reckless  affair  that  took  us  before  a  sleepy 
justice  of  the  peace  in  a  country  town  and  drew  us 
away  into  Bedlam. 

"Nora,  a  woman  must  choose  between  two  types 
of  men;  those  who  protect  and  those  who  must  be 
protected.  Phillip,  after  some  heedless  extrava- 
gance or  folly,  would  come  humbly  to  me  like  a 
naughty  child.  I  always  forgave  him  and  I  worked, 
worked,  worked  to  make  things  easier  for  him  and 
for  me.  Sometimes  we  lived  in  cheap  boarding 
houses  where  we  stayed  until  our  trunks  were  seized 
for  the  bill.  Sometimes  we  shared  a  wretched  flat 
with  dreamers  like  ourselves  who  faded  away  and 
left  the  rent  for  us  to  settle. 

"But  Phillip  was  becoming  famous  in  the  sort  of 
twilight  intellectual  world  we  inhabited.  His  novel, 
The  Dead  Weight/  we  managed  to  publish  at  our 
own  expense.  We  gave  away  most  of  the  edition ; 
but  it  finally  gained  a  large,  free  circulation  through 


Wings  51 

a  socialistic  publishing  firm  that  offered  no  royalties. 
A  great  Russian  novelist,  who  visited  this  country, 
wanted  to  see  Phillip.  We  were  too  poor  to  go  to 
him,  so  he  came  to  us.  How  he  could  talk,  that 
inspired,  embittered  man  with  the  lion's  head !  All 
the  people  around  us  could  talk — for  we  had  no  pa- 
tience with  numbskulls.  But  this  wise,  big,  foolish, 
temperamental  foreigner  loved  brandy  with  his  con- 
versation— and  Phillip  loved  it,  too.  He  was  often 
gone,  weeks  at  a  time,  with  this  genius;  and  he 
would  come  back  to  me,  shattered  and  stony  broke. 

"That  is  the  penalty  of  dreams,  my  dear. 
Turn  your  back  upon  the  stupid,  immovable,  stand- 
ards of  conventional  life  and  you  cannot  expect 
things  to  run  smoothly.  Phillip's  book  got  to  be  a 
sort  of  bible  among  the  enthusiasts  of  our  quarter. 
It  spoke  with  terrible  frankness  upon  the  subject  of 
child-murder  in  the  industrial  districts.  Phillip 
could  make  the  words  burn,  but  the  facts  were  mine 
— I  had  gathered  them,  you  see,  when  I  was  a  piece- 
worker in  the  factories." 

"You  did  that?"  asked  Nora,  feeling  for  the  cold 
hand. 

"I  seldom  knew  what  it  was  to  sleep  in  a  good  bed 
or  eat  decent  food — except  on  occasions  when  we 
were  invited  as  honoured  guests  among  prosperous 
reformers.  We  went  about  more  and  more,  of 
course,  as  we  grew  older.  Once  the  President,  who 
was  interested  in  legislation  along  the  lines  we  knew, 
asked  us  to  dine  with  him.  He  was  very  compli- 


52  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

mentary,  but  Phillip  drank  too  much  wine  that  night, 
as  he  always  did  when  it  was  set  before  him. 

"Nine  years  after  our  marriage  my — my  baby 
was  born."  Hilda  Sarodny  reached  up  and  stroked 
the  lock  of  soft  hair  under  Nora's  little  hat.  "He 
wasn't  a  strong  child.  The  doctor  called  it  anaemia 
when  he  died.  We  couldn't  expect  anything  better 
than  that  in  a  world  where  the  food  was  never 
meant  for  human  beings.  I'm  not  a  religious 
woman,  Nora.  But  I  had  a  foolish  instinct  to  call 
in  a  clergyman  when  they  buried  my  boy.  Phillip, 
of  course,  wouldn't  listen  to  that.  He  said  that, 
if  there  were  prayers  they  should  be  to  the  Satan 
who  permitted  the  System  that  killed  our  babies.  I 
wasn't  sure  whether  it  was  the  System  or  Phillip 
who  was  to  blame/.  .  ." 

"Ah,  my  poor,  poor  Aunt!"  Nora  nestled  her 
head  a  moment  upon  the  shaking,  emaciated  breast. 

"What  right  had  I  to  children?"  demanded  the 
woman  savagely.  "I  had  taken  my  path  among 
the  sterile  spots  of  earth — ah,  and  the  dreams !  We 
plunged  into  the  maelstrom  after  that.  We  wan- 
dered with  the  Ishmaelites  and  fought  their  losing 
fight.  We  were  driven  out  of  Pittsburg  for  leading 
a  riot.  We  were  arrested  in  San  Francisco  and  the 
Chicago  authorities  warned  us  to  move  on. 

"We  had  written  a  disagreeable  pamphlet  to- 
gether, Phillip  and  I.  It  was  on  the  subject  of  sani- 
tation in  the  poor  districts  and  the  honest  methods 
of  preventing  contagion  among  children.  Health 


Wings ' 53 

departments  in  a  few  of  the  more  progressive  cities 
mostly  in  the  Middle  West — took  this  up,  in  part; 
and  Phillip  and  I  were  vain  enough  to  credit  our- 
selves with  a  little  of  the  good  it  accomplished.  But 
in  some  of  the  greater  cities  it  was  fought  bitterly. 
That  was  about  the  time  my  husband — went  away. 

"Phillip  had  gotten  himself  a  position  as  editor 
of  a  small,  radical  sheet  at  a  salary  of  nothing  a 
year.  There  had  been  hints  of  a  fatal  contagious 
disease  among  the  children  in  our  municipality ;  and 
the  articles  signed  Sarodny  went  at  the  causes  of  in- 
fection hammer  and  tongs.  It  was  a  splendid,  bit- 
ter, invective  fight — for  the  Sarodny  pen  stung  like 
an  adder.  Phillip  knew  where  the  blame  would  lie 
if  the  disease  spread.  And  he  named  names.  Cases 
were  reported,  growing  more  numerous  from  day 
to  day.  Phillip  came  out  and  said  in  so  many  words 
that  certain  members  of  the  Organization,  who  were 
pocketing  public  health  funds,  were  nothing  less 
than  the  murderers  of  little  children.  His  roarings 
began  to  echo  through  the  metropolis — but  they 
didn't  last  for  long.  Late  one  night,  while  Phillip 
was  drinking  in  a  saloon,  several  strangers  under- 
took to  quarrel  with  him ;  he  struck  one  of  them — 
they  say  he  drew  a  revolver.  Possibly  he  did,  for 
he  was  utterly  reckless  at  such  times.  The  man  who 
fired  and  shot  him  dead  was  never  discovered/' 

Hilda  Sarodny  held  her  niece's  hand  with  a  grip 
of  steel. 

"What  did  you  do  then?"  asked  Nora. 


54  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"That's  all  my  story,  my  child,"  answered  her 
aunt  feebly.  "I  lived  my  life  long  enough  to  finish 
my  husband's  campaign.  It  was  his  work — I  merely 
put  it  in  shape  and  published  it ;  but  the  great  dailies 
took  it  up  at  last;  and  there  was  a  reorganisation 
in  the  Board  of  Health/' 

"Why  have  you  told  me  this?"  asked  Nora,  rising 
and  looking  down  on  the  dim,  sheeted  form. 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  said  Hilda  Sarodny,  "I 
want  you  to  see  the  battle  and  the  shame  that  must 
come  to  a  woman  who  chooses  the  Dream  as  her 
life.  Without  this  Dream  you  have  honour  among 
good  people,  beauty  to  surround  you,  children,  sweet 
children  to  bless  your  normal,  happy  world.  With  it 
you  have  starvation,  shame,  illness,  neglect  and  the 
prospect  of  lying  low,  a  failure  as  I  am, — look,  my 
dear,  at  your  mother's  four  wonderful  children  and 
ask  no  more!" 

"Aunt  Hilda,"  inquired  Nora,  again  seating  her- 
self beside  the  emaciated  body,  "how  many  children 
do  you  think  you  saved  by  your  work — and  his?" 

"Who  knows?"  The  quavering  voice  came 
faintly. 

"A  hundred — a  thousand,  perhaps?" 

"Yes.    I  should  say,  a  thousand  perhaps." 

Nora  sat  gazing  at  the  deep  eyes  that  glowed  at 
her  through  the  dimness  of  the  room. 

"Aunt  Hilda,"  she  went  on,  "you  have  told  me 
all  but  one  thing.  You  have  told  me  what  your 


Wings 55 

Dream  has  taken  away  from  you.  But  what  has  it 
given  you?" 

The  thin,  white  form  on  the  bed  seemed  to  float 
upward,  as  though  levitated  by  ghostly  fingers.  The 
eyes  gazed,  deep,  wonderful  in  the  patch  of  white 
that  was  her  face  as,  sitting  rigidly  up,  she  raised 
her  bony  arms  till  they  seemed  to  float  above  her 
like  aspiring  flames. 

"Wings!"  she  cried  aloud.  "Wings  to  take  me 
above  the  bad  and  the  good.  Wings  to  see  the  wide 
places " 

And  she  settled  back  again  to  her  corpse-like  pos- 
ture among  the  pillows. 

Hilda  Sarodny  might  have  been  dead  as  she  lay 
there,  but  her  cavernous  eyes  were  open  and  fixed 
upon  the  girl. 

"Aunt,"  said  Nora,  her  mouth  close  to  the  wom- 
an's ear,  "I  know  my  life  belongs  to  some  one  be- 
sides myself.  I  realise  what  it  will  do  if  I  go  now. 
I  have  no  right  to  wound  and  kill  those  who  have 
given  me  everything  in  the  world." 

"Then  turn  back!"  said  the  thin  voice  from  the 
pillow.  "Take  your  world  and  live  in  it  and  be 
happy." 

"But,  Aunt  Hilda,  Aunt  Hilda!"  Her  tears  were 
wetting  the  pillow  beside  the  tangle  of  grey  hair. 
"That's  the  thing  that's  calling  me.  I  never  knew 
it  so  well  as  now.  The  wings,  the  wings,  Aunt 
Hilda.  I've  got  them— shall  I  break  them,  shall  I 
tear  them  out  and  die?" 


56  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

A  skeleton-like  arm  went  out  from  beneath  the 
bed-clothes  and  gripped  the  young  head  fiercely  to 
a  bony  cheek. 

"No,"  said  Hilda  Sarodny.  'They  have  no  right 
to  ask  it.  Spread  them,  my  darling.  Stretch  them 
and  fly !"  Her  voice  gained  power  again,  just  for 
a  moment.  "Go,  Nora.  Don't  wait  an  instant. 
Fly  as  quick  as  wings  can  carry  you,  away  from 
this " 

She  said  no  more,  for  her  teeth  had  clenched  upon 
her  lip. 

"I'm  going  to  him  now,"  replied  Nora  as  she 
leaned  down  and  kissed  the  dim  face  on  the  pillow. 

Hilda  Sarodny  arose  when  Nora  was  gone.  Help- 
ing herself  stiffly  along  from  chair  to  chair,  she 
gained  the  lintel  of  the  high  window.  There  was 
an  elfin  green  in  the  sky,  there  were  silver  tips  on 
the  shrubs  and  forest  depths ;  the  pillars  of  the  ve- 
randah had  taken  on  the  look  of  Prosperous  airy 
palace-gates ;  and  far  down  the  enchanted  whiteness 
of  the  path  two  glinting  figures,  tipped  with  moon- 
shine, nebulous,  un-fleshly,  seemed  to  float  together, 
cling  and  disappear  into  the  vague  fourth  dimension 
of  romance. 

Hilda  Sarodny  smiled  gloriously,  then  began 
groping  her  way  back  to  bed.  Already  the  palsied 
fit  of  trembling  was  upon  her,  and  through  the  long 
hours  she  lay,  straining  her  eyes  into  the  darkness, 
awaiting  dawn  and  the  last  act  of  her  tragedy.  She 


Wings 57 

could  ask  no  mercy  now  of  the  sister  to  whom  her 
life  had  been  a  horror  and  a  loathing.  She  had 
come  here  to  die  in  peace  and,  dying,  had  betrayed 
the  only  kindness  the  world  could  offer  her.  She 
had  broken  her  promise,  given  solemnly  and  in  good 
faith  to  Harrison  Gregory.  He  had  come  to  her 
in  his  trouble,  asking  her  to  make  amends  for  the 
wrong  she  had  done  him.  And  this  was  how  she 
had  kept  her  word ! 

Once  she  tried  to  arise  and  put  on  her  clothes.  It 
was  her  insane  idea  to  escape,  too,  as  Nora  had 
done.  If  she  must  die  it  was  better  that  the  clean 
night  air  should  have  her  spirit,  that  neither  soul 
nor  body  should  remain  in  this  house  she  had  be- 
trayed. But  as  her  skinny  fingers  went  fumbling 
among  her  clothes,  aimlessly  attempting  to  adjust 
the  garments  to  her  narrow  shoulders,  strength  left 
her  and  she  fell. 

At  last  she  regained  her  bed  and  surrendered  to 
her  punishment.  She  heard  the  distant  clock  ring 
out  its  three,  its  four,  its  five.  Already  the  en- 
chanted woods  outside  were  taking  on  the  common- 
place of  dawn.  Soon  the  grass  of  the  lawn  began 
to  catch  the  wholesome  gold  of  day.  A  lush,  brown 
butterfly  went  trembling  past  her  window.  Hilda 
Sarodny  experienced  a  pleasant  absence  of  pain ;  she 
was  all  intelligence,  as  though  she  had  already  died 
and  come  into  another  life. 

She  heard  the  early  morning  wagons  rattling 
up  the  drive.  An  Italian  gardener  paused  by  the 


58  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

hydrangea  row  and  hummed  contentedly  as  he 
trimmed.  A  robin  whistled  on  the  lawn.  There 
came  then  the  sound  of  servants  stirring  about  the 
house.  Dread  was  beginning  to  take  a  new  hold 
upon  her ;  for  the  hue  and  cry  would  soon  be  sound- 
ing. For  an  hour  of  awful  waiting  she  lay  there, 
witnessing  the  revival  of  a  day  that  brought  no 
warmth  to  her. 

Suddenly — it  came  distinctly,  frightfully  to  her 
ears — a  high-pitched,  strained,  tormented  voice 
wailed  the  word. 

"Nora!"  came  the  shriek  from  some  upstairs  bed- 
room. Then  again,  as  it  searched  from  place  to 
place,  the  desperate  wail,  "Nora!  Nora!" 

Many  feet  were  now  surging  through  the  house, 
upstairs  and  down.  The  basso  of  Harrison  Greg- 
ory's appeal  was  confused  with  that  of  his  wife. 

"Nora!  Nora!"  Nearer  and  nearer  came  the 
accusing  note  that  pierced  her  guiltily  as  she  lay. 
Her  life  had  been  a  failure — and  this  was  the  end. 

Closer  and  closer  scuffled  the  excited  feet.  They 
were  coming  down  the  hall,  leading  to  her  room. 
Outside  she  could  hear  Mrs.  Gregory's  tense-drawn 
treble.  There  was  frenzied  knocking  at  her  door. 

Hilda  Sarodny  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed,  gaunt, 
bloodless,  her  teeth  clenched,  her  eyes  set,  her  fin- 
gers gripping  into  the  imaginary  succour  of  her  bed- 
clothes. 

"Come  in !"  she  said  calmly. 


HE  SHOT  THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE 

BULKELEY  WORTH,  the  gentleman-man- 
ager, one  of  the  few  idealists  whom  New 
York  respected,  called  up  Karl  Berling  on 
the  telephone,  and  smiled  as  he  did  so.  Worth  was 
a  rugged  man  of  about  forty-five,  with  a  homely, 
deep-lined  face,  and  eyes  that  were  kindly  keen  be- 
hind thick-lensed  glasses  which,  when  you  looked 
at  him  directly,  contracted  the  iris  of  either  eye  to 
a  little  steely  gimlet  point.  He  was  in  the  small  lux- 
urious apartment  which  he  had  caused  to  be  built 
over  the  balcony  of  the  Gramercy  Playhouse — his 
own  theatre.  In  the  wall  six  feet  from  the  desk  was 
a  window-like  affair  which  closed  with  a  trap,  and 
through  which,  when  it  was  open,  Worth  could  look 
down  on  the  stage  and  witness,  in  critical  seclusion, 
the  smoothest  performances  of  the  most  artistic 
plays  being  produced  on  the  American  stage.  The 
trap  was  closed  at  this  moment,  for  the  theatre  was 
not  yet  open  for  the  evening. 

"Come  on  over,  tired  business  man/'  Worth  was 
saying  into  the  mouth-piece.  "I  want  to  show  you 
a  jewel.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is.  ...  Yes,  I  have!  Five 
minutes." 

He  winked  merrily  to  an  invisible  accomplice, 
hung  up  the  receiver,  and  spent  the  intervening  time 

59 


60  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

reflectively  pacing  the  pleasant  room  and  swaying  a 
bunch  of  keys  on  the  end  of  a  chain. 

Karl  Berling  entered  without  knocking,  as  he  al- 
ways did.  He  was  a  short,  round-bodied  man  of 
a  Jewish  type,  dark,  and  with  a  head  and  an  expres- 
sion that  were  at  once  emotional  and  sophisticated. 
As  this  man  breezed  in,  gesturing  as  he  talked,  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  Worth  regarded  him  with  some- 
thing more  than  affectionate  comradeship;  he  re- 
spected his  opinions.  In  fact,  it  was  for  his  hon- 
esty and  quick  intelligence  of  judgment  that  the 
manager  had  selected  him  as  financial  associate  in  a 
business  where  art  came  dangerously  near  being  re- 
warded in  its  own  coin. 

"What's  this  about  jewelry?"  Berling  asked,  be- 
ginning to  talk  before  he  had  well  entered  the  room. 
"If  it's  a  real  one,  you'd  better  cash  it  in  and  lift  the 
mortgage." 

"A  human  jewel,"  replied  Worth  from  his  swivel- 
chair.  "An  actor — real  thing!" 

Berling's  face  was  serious,  respecting  the  enthusi- 
asm of  his  friend,  who  had  made  himself  famous 
for  a  genius  in  selecting  talent  of  the  finer  sort. 

"High  priced?"  asked  Berling,  cocking  his  head 
to  one  side. 

"Commercial-minded  one !"  The  manager's  eyes 
beamed  through  his  thick  glasses. 

"I'm  not  denying  that,"  replied  the  Jew.  "I'm 
in  the  feather  business,  and  I  don't  put  good  money 
into  plumes  of  any  sort  unless  I  have  a  good  notion 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise        61 

how  I'm  coming  out.  Please  don't  misunderstand 
me,  Bulkeley."  He  put  up  a  hand  against  his 
friend's  protest.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  that  I've 
invested  two  hundred  thousand  in  this  theatre  be- 
cause you're  making  a  dignified  success  of  the  dra- 
matic art.  I  wouldn't  risk  a  cent  to  make  a  million 
in  the  ordinary  Broadway  leg-and-laughter  stuff." 

"I  realise  that,  Karl,"  said  Worth  seriously. 

"But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  can't  afford  to  lose  my 
money  on  experiments  that  aren't  going  to  succeed. 
Therefore  I  want  to  look  over  your  actor  as  I'd  look 
over  any  other  bale  of  goods.  What's  his  name?" 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  theatre  where  he  plays." 
Worth  smiled  teasingly. 

"Mystery.  What  corner  of  New  York  could  con- 
ceal an  artist  big  enough  to  cause  a  thrill  in  the 
Gramercy  Playhouse?"  Berling  asked  this  almost 
reverently. 

"I'll  lead  you  to  him,"  Worth  repeated. 

"Metropolitan  Opera  House?" 

"No." 

"Deutsches  Theatre?" 

"Wrong." 

"Jewish  Theatre  ?  Enormous  talents  come  out  of 
that." 

"Guess  again,"  chuckled  the  manager. 

The  stout  man  with  the  sensitive  face  eyed  his 
companion  quizzically. 

"You've  made  some  discoveries,"  he  said  at  last — 
"more,  perhaps,  than  all  the  others  put  together. 


62  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

But  it's  the  big  discovery  that's  dangerous,  because 
it  might  mean  a  big  failure — and  that's  expensive." 
"It's  eight  o'clock/'  responded  Worth,  consulting 
his  watch.  "Step  over  with  me  and  we'll  take  a  look 
at  him." 

The  building  before  which  they  halted  flashed  the 
electric  motto : 

GRANTLAND— THE  PURPLE  NECKTIE 

The  lobby  shrieked  with  bright  lights,  under  which 
a  tight  mass  of  humanity — men  in  shoddy  hats  with 
loud  bands,  stout  women  with  bleached  hair,  vacant- 
faced  college  lads,  languid  Johnnies  in  overstyled 
evening  dress — crowded  toward  the  gate  as  through 
the  neck  of  a  funnel.  This  was  the  Jollity  Theatre's 
average  evening,  and  the  standing  room  sign  would 
be  out  on  the  sidewalk  in  half  an  hour. 

Bulkeley  Worth  took  Karl  Berling  firmly  by  the 
elbow  and  guided  his  astonished  steps  directly  under 
the  Jollity's  flaming  arch.  Subservience  met  the 
celebrated  director  on  every  hand.  It  was  indeed 
a  tribute  to  Worth's  success  that  a  man  whose  name 
stood  so  distinctly  for  uncommercial  art  should  be 
recognised  and  deferred  to  by  Broadway. 

Only  Karl  Berling  seemed  displeased  at  the  man- 
ager's appearance  in  this  vulgarising  region. 

"Candidly,  Bulkeley — now  what  on  earth " 

"Cerberus  leads  Orpheus  into  the  pit,"  laughed 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         63 

Worth.  "Follow  me.  You'll  find  an  interesting 
inhabitant." 

A  chorus  of  Directoire  beaux  and  belles  were 
swaying  to  a  "How  fair  to  live  in  jollitee,  in  Ar- 
cadee,  so  happilee!"  And  Worth,  smiling  quizzi- 
cally upon  his  scornful  companion,  brought  a  large 
palm  down  on  his  knee  and  said : 

"Now/watch!" 

"Legs !"  snorted  Berling,  putting  into  the  word  all 
the  contempt  that  those  useful  members  inspire  in 
the  fastidious. 

"No;  brains!"  Bulkeley  Worth's  kind,  deep- 
lined,  homely  face  turned  squarely  to  the  stage, 
where  a  flat-hatted  comedian  in  plaids  made  monkey- 
love  to  an  exaggerated  blonde.  "You  see,  I've  been 
here  before/'  he  added  rather  apologetically. 

"Seeking  your  jewel  among  the  onions?" 

"Remember^  my  boy,  the  lily  is  merely  an  aristo- 
cratic onion." 

"Yes;  but  every  onion  is  not  a  lily."  Berling's 
contempt  grew  as  the  performance  waxed  noisier. 
"Where's  your  prodigy  ?  That  over  there  ?"  point- 
ing to  the  flat-hatted  one. 

"I'll  tell  you."  Worth  exploded  his  bomb  with 
a  smile.  "I  am  looking  at  Homer  Grantland." 

"Homer  Grantland !"  Berling  sniffed  amazement 
in  naming  the  popular  idol  of  the  musical  shows. 
"You  can't  mean — that  chestnut !" 

A  troupe  of  silk  stockings,  tripping  from  the 
wings  below  doll- faces  that  uttered  the  laughter  of 


64  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

parrots,  interrupted  further  exclamation.  Two  ex- 
pectant rows  formed  cross-stage,  the  orchestra 
dripped  honey — a  song  was  imminent. 

Homer  Grantland  entered  casually  at  centre  stage. 
His  goings  and  comings,  theatrically,  were  always 
casual,  full  of  a  comical  feigned  embarrassment,  as 
if  he  had  stumbled  in  quite  by  accident  and  would 
gladly  escape  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  he  was 
too  bashful  to  ask  his  way  out.  Broadway  rocked 
with  applause,  just  as  it  had  rocked  for  eight  years 
at  his  apotheosis  in  calcium. 

The  music  cue  pattered  monotonously, — nm-pah, 
um-pah,  um-pah, — and  the  favourite  comedian's 
saunter  from  tip-stage  to  footlights  took  an  age  of 
suspense,  during  which  he  never  hastened  one  lag- 
ging step.  Homer  Grantland  was  never  in  a  hurry, 
and  to-night  he  made  his  audience  wait  for  him, 
suspending  their  applause,  just  as  they  had  always 
done  since  his  first  victory  in  an  Eighth  Avenue  bur- 
lesque theatre.  Until  he  had  reached  the  very  edge  of 
the  stage  and  poised  himself,  tall,  sharp-nosed,  rov- 
ing of  eye,  shock-headed,  mobile  of  mouth,  poised 
like  some  particularly  droll  gargoyle  above  the  af- 
fectionate worshippers,  they  paid  him  the  tribute  of 
a  silence  that  brought  out  an  occasional  hysterical 
giggle  from  scattered  seats. 

"He  has  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand/'  whis- 
pered Worth  to  Berling.  It  was  at  that  instant  that 
Grantland  scored  his  first  laugh.  His  voice  was 
deep,  nasal,  resonant,  of  remarkable  carrying  power ; 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         65 

and  it  seemed  in  some  elfin  way  to  be  in  tune  with 
his  eccentric,  blue,  spike-tailed  coat  and  beaver  hat. 

"I've  got  a  motto/'  he  began  sadly,  confidingly, 
cocking  his  head  to  one  side.  "If  you  want  to  win 
'em,  keep  'em  waiting." 

The  sentence,  not  particularly  humorous  in  it- 
self, was  as  nicely  timed  and  placed  as  the  firing  of 
a  lyddite  shell  into  a  distant  camp.  There  was  a 
point  of  pause,  then  a  roar  that  shook  like  an  ex- 
plosion and  rocked  the  Jollity  Theatre  as  it  had 
every  night  for  the  whole  year  during  which  "The 
Purple  Necktie"  had  run  its  triumphant  course. 
Grantland  had  found  his  range,  as  usual,  and  his 
only  task  was  to  act  at  whim.  He  bubbled,  extem- 
porised, spun  cobwebs,  appeared  to  forget  his  lines 
and  pick  them  up  in  ridiculously  odd  places.  To  the 
uninitiated  the  performance  seemed  absolutely  spon- 
taneous, and  even  Worth's  practised  eye  was  strained 
to  catch  the  performer's  calculating  glances,  which 
betrayed  a  deliberate  design  in  his  every  banality. 

"It's  what  I've  said  for  a  year."  Worth  spoke 
close  into  Berling's  ear. 

"Said?"    The  Jew  perked  his  eyebrows. 

"The  man's  a  true  artist." 

"Ye-e-es,  in  a  way,"  drawled  the  Jew,  toward  the 
end  of  the  act.  "A  sort  of  peculiar  charm — hum — 
but  what  can  we  do  with  it  ?" 

"Put  it  where  it  belongs — in  the  Gramercy  Play- 
house," Worth  replied  promptly. 

"No!" 


66  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Berling  rolled  his  big  black  eyes,  then  turned 
his  regard  again  toward  the  stage,  where  that  com- 
pelling voice  was  interpolating  nonsense  above  the 
noisiest  chorus  in  New  York.  The  curtain  at  last 
rolled  down,  in  the  irresolute  manner  peculiar  to 
Broadway  curtains,  only  to  bob  up  again  half  a 
dozen  times,  revealing  Homer  Grantland  enthroned 
on  a  table  and  humorously  addressing  a  mob  of 
simple  villagers,  who  had  come  miraculously  to 
greet  him  as  Chief  of  Police.  It  was  then  that 
Worth  touched  his  friend  on  the  shoulder  and  arose. 

"Come  around  with  me  now  to  his  dressing- 
room/'  he  whispered  secretively. 

"So  soon?"  Berling  asked.  "You're  not 
really " 

But  the  pith  of  the  question  was  lost  in  the  dark 
alleyway  and  jumbled  fire-escapes  leading  to  the 
frosted  glass  of  the  stage-door. 

"I  rather  think — really — "  remarked  Worth 
quizzically,  as  he  handed  his  card  to  the  man  at  the 
grating. 

"Not  seriously?"  Berling  thrust  his  face  very 
close  to  the  other's,  a  mannerism  of  his  when  very 
much  excited. 

"Seriously  or  not  at  all,"  said  the  manager. 
"What's  the  matter,  Karl?  You've  seldom  made 
such  a  fuss  about  any  of  my  inspirations." 

"So  much  depends  on  what  you're  going  to  use 
him  for,"  he  replied,  just  as  a  Japanese  valet  ap- 
peared out  of  the  door  labelled  "A." 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         67 

"Mr.  Grantland  see  you,  please,"  grinned  the  at- 
tendant; and  the  two  visitors  were  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  Broadway's  favourite  comedian,  who 
wore  an  athletic  undershirt  and  a  pair  of  comedy 
trousers. 

Homer  Grantland  sat  in  the  narrow  little  box  of 
a  room  as  near  the  tools  of  his  trade  as  a  galley  slave 
to  his  oar.  On  the  shelf  before  him  were  pencils  of 
colour,  cold  cream,  and  a  mess  of  stained  cloth. 

The  fa'ce  that  Bulkeley  Worth  saw  in  the  mirror 
was  narrow,  nervous,  eagerly  selfish,  full  of  a  pe- 
culiar fire  and  whim — shrewdness,  passion,  a  will 
to  please,  intelligence,  humour,  mimicry,  ambition. 
His  eyes  were  large,  of  a  light  blue,  somewhat  too 
cold  and  goggling;  and  his  head,  crowned  with  a 
mop  of  tow-coloured  hair,  ran  rather  too  much  to  a 
peak  above  the  ears.  The  man,  even  as  he  sat  there 
rubbing  make-up  into  the  corners  of  his  slender 
nose,  seemed  to  express  in  every  line  of  his  gangling 
personality  something  far  too  dramatic  and  im- 
portant for  the  simple  uses  of  the  Jollity.  It  was 
evident  that  he  recognised  Worth  from  his  vantage 
at  the  mirror;  but  it  was  characteristic  of  him  to 
keep  his  callers  standing  in  the  door  long  enough  to 
grasp  the  full  effect  of  himself. 

"Ah — Mr.  Worth  ?"  He  wiped  his  fingers  on  a 
towel  and  extended  a  lean  hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Grantland?  This  is  Mr. 
Berling." 

"Glad,  very  glad!"     Grantland  scarcely  vouch- 


68  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

safed  Berling  a  glance,  but  directed  his  remarks  to 
Worth,  never  losing  his  aplomb  before  the  most 
worldly  figure  in  the  managerial  world.  "Have  a 
cigar?  Ziro,  get  out  the  box  in  the  top  drawer. 
Have  a  chair,  won't  you?" 

As  he  talked  he  was  shoving  his  wide  shoulders 
into  a  gaudy  military  coat.  The  two  men  seated 
themselves,  and  Grantland  hurried  on  with  his 
change  of  costume. 

"Rather  a  quick  shuffle  this  time ;  but,  you  under- 
stand, I  can  talk  while  I  work.  Nasty  mess  of  a 
dressing-room,  isn't  it?"  He  accepted  a  comedy 
sword  from  the  solemn  Ziro.  "You'll  pardon  this, 
won't  you?" 

Bulkeley  Worth  pressed  his  long  New  England 
upper  lip  and  sat  appraising  the  actor  through  his 
near-sighted  eye-glasses.  Evidently  Grantland  ap- 
preciated the  importance  of  the  visit,  but  had  no  in- 
tention of  offering  the  first  opening. 

"I've  enjoyed  it  quite  unexpectedly,"  Worth  vol- 
unteered, after  an  awkward  pause. 

"Nice-looking  show  we  have,  haven't  we?" 
Grantland  gave  himself  a  farewell  glance  in  the  mir- 
ror. "Nice  support,  good  music." 

"I'm  not  interested  in  the  music  and  the  support," 
said  the  manager,  bluntly;  "but  I  think  you're  quite 
wonderful." 

"You're  awfully  kind — I  appreciate  this  enor- 
mously from  you''  replied  Grantland  in  his  pecu- 
liarly pleasant  nasal  tone,  as  he  suddenly  faced 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         69 

about,  frankness  showing  for  the  first  time.  "I'd 
like  to  add,  Mr.  Worth,  that  I'd  rather  you'd  tell  me 
that  than  any  other  manager  in  America." 

"I  don't  know  what  your  ideals  are,  Mr.  Grant- 
land,"  said  Worth,  not  overlooking  the  feeling  and 
temperament  with  which  the  actor  had  delivered  his 
lines. 

Karl  Berling  sat  in  his  corner,  regarding  the  actor 
with  a  look  that  was  peculiarly  narrow. 

"They're  ideals,  at  least,"  the  actor  went  on, 
pointing  his  words  with  small,  significant  gestures. 
"You  know,  it's  a  maxim  of  the  Rialto  that  every 
clown  wants  to  act  Hamlet.  The  sort  of  horse  and 
monkey  I  play  every  night  doesn't  come  under  the 
head  of  art " 

"But  the  acting  does,"  Worth  interrupted  quickly. 

"Maybe.  I've  made  money,  you  understand,  and 
I'm  rich,  as  actors  go.  I've  got  my  estate  at  Murray 
Bay,  and  a  yacht,  and  three  motor-cars.  But  I 
haven't  got  what  I  want.  I  saw  your  professional 
matinee  of  The  Snare'  at  the  Gramercy  last  week, 
and  as  I  went  away  I  wanted  to  bawl  like  a  school- 
boy, I  was  so  crazy  to  act  that  part.  I'd  give  my 
fortune  and  my  catchpenny  reputation  for  that  sort 
of  a  chance.  Mr.  Worth,  you  can't  tell  how  proud  I 
am  that  you  noticed  my  work." 

Karl  Berling  rested  his  chin  on  his  knuckles  and 
thrust  his  clever  face  forward. 

"Then  you've  considered  a  more — ambitious  art? 
I  didn't  know,"  said  Worth  tentatively. 


70  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I'd  be  wildly  grateful  for  a  chance/'  replied 
Grantland,  with  a  modesty  quite  un-actoresque. 
"I'm  too  old  a  hand  to  work  on  a  beginner's  con- 
tract, you  understand " 

Some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  outside 
said,  "Act's  on,  Mr.  Grantland."  He  already  had 
his  lean  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think — "  he  began,  and  paused. 
"I  have  to  catch  a  late  train  or  I'd  see  you  after- 
ward." 

Bulkeley  Worth  extended  a  cordial  hand.  "I  am 
sure  we  can  arrange  a  talk  soon.  Good-bye." 

The  two  men  re-entered  those  pleasant  apartments 
overlooking  the  Gramercy's  stage.  Berling,  without 
asking  the  manager's  consent,  opened  the  trap  near 
Worth's  desk,  and  for  a  time  the  two  stood  silently 
gazing  down  upon  the  body  of  the  house.  'The 
Snare,"  that  intricate  study  of  real  men  and  women 
caught  in  the  complexities  of  life,  was  now  weaving 
out  its  last  act  in  a  progress  of  dignified  tragedy. 
Down  there,  moving  quietly,  harmoniously  across 
the  stage  he  loved,  Worth  beheld,  with  the  emotion 
he  never  quite  outwore,  his  troupe  of  distinguished 
players  telling  their  story  in  terms  of  restraint,  har- 
mony, reverence  for  an  art  that  decried  loud  aping 
for  applause.  Subdued  lights,  subdued  acting — 
what  a  contrast  here  to  the  blare  and  glare  and  soul- 
insulting  nonsense  of  the  Broadway  harlequinade 
they  had  just  witnessed !  Berling  and  Worth  must 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         71 

have  had  this  thought  simultaneously,  for  their  eyes 
met  suddenly  in  an  expression  that  was  charged 
with  doubt.  It  was  the  Jew  who  first  spoke  when 
they  had  closed  the  trap  and  turned  to  their  whiskey 
and  cigars. 

"Man  alive !  You  mean  to  say  you'll  take  a  star 
bodily  out  of  the  Jollity,  and  drop  him,  dripping 
with  Broadway,  on  to  the  stage  of  the  Gramercy?" 
It  was  asked  as  if  the  fires  of  Thespis  might  blast 
them  both  for  the  iniquitous  thought. 

"I've  chosen  my  people  where  I  found  them,"  an- 
swered Worth  quietly.  "May  Whitestone  was  a 
society  amateur,  as  you  remember,  and  to-day  she's 
unequalled  in  her  particular  field.  Arthur  Granno — 
and  we  have  no  finer  comedian,  you'll  admit — was  a 
professional  entertainer  at  club  dinners." 

"Yes ;  but  you  took  these  people  as  pliant  as  putty 
and  moulded  them  to  your  school  of  acting.  This 
man  Grantland  might  do  for  special  parts,  but  you 
couldn't  use  him  all  the  time.  As  a  business  man, 
I  couldn't  advise  you  to  throw  a  fortune  away  on  a 
man  you  could  use  only  once  in  a  while.  His  salary 
must  be  something  awful." 

"I  don't  intend  him  for  special  parts,"  Worth 
smiled. 

"Well,  what  can  you  do  with  him  ?  He's  baked  in 
the  wrong  oven — raw  on  one  side,  burnt  on  the 
other.  He's  bursting  with  perverse  ideas.  He's  vul- 
gar; he's  egotistical." 

"There!"      cried      Worth,      with      enthusiasm. 


72  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"You've  struck  it  He's  egotistical !  Splendid !  I 
don't  care  if  he's  a  bit  vulgar.  A  lot  of  that  can  be 
turned  into  vigour.  If  he's  half  baked,  so  much  the 
better, — I'll  bake  him  over.  But  egotism — that's 
just  what  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  say.  Egotism 
will  never  fit  into  a  small  part,"  went  on  Worth, 
and  his  tone  was  quiet  with  suppressed  excitement. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  going  to  put  on?"  Ber- 
ling  thrust  his  face  far  forward. 

Worth  sat  a  long  time,  his  square  chin  resting  on 
the  bend  of  his  hairy  wrist. 

"  'Peer  Gynt,'  "  he  replied  at  last. 

Berling  whistled. 

"  'Peer  Gynt !'  Bulkeley,  I  admire  your  nerve. 
How  I'd  like  to  see  you  put  it  on,  big  and  royal  and 
gorgeous,  the  way  it  should  be  done.  I'll  risk  my 
money  with  you  on  it,  Bulkeley — but  we've  got  to 
be  practical.  Spectacular  drama's  a  horrible  hole  to 
pour  money  into.  And  'Peer  Gynt' !  There  isn't 
a  more  expensive  experiment  in  dramatic  history. 
Mansfield " 

"I've  always  had  an  itch  to  do  the  thing  again. 
The  last  ten  years  have  taught  us  so  much  about  the 
effective  and  mysterious  in  scenic  arrangement.  I 
should  like  Streiber,  who  has  stolen  and  improved 
a  page  from  Max  Rinehart,  to  paint  the  palace  of 
the  Troll  King.  He's  already  made  sketches  for  the 
whole  set — wonderful." 

Worth  was  now  pacing  up  and  down  the  little 
room,  swinging  his  key  chain  as  he  walked.  Berling 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         73 

sat,  his  short  legs  thrust  out,  his  eyes  focussed  on 
the  ceiling. 

"How  much  will  it  cost?"  he  inquired,  at  last. 

"About  seventy-five  thousand — up  to  the  dress 
rehearsal." 

"Hum!  And  you're  anxious  to  pay  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars" — Berling  doubled  his  legs  under 
him  and  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  desk  as  he 
rolled  the  sum  again  over  his  tongue — "sev-en-ty- 
five  thousand  for  the  privilege  of  Ibsenising  George 
M.  Cohan." 

"You  don't  think  Grantland  could  get  away  with 
the  part?" 

The  men  faced  each  other. 

"You're  a  practical  man  when  your  ideals  don't 
get  you  by  the  hair.  If  you  choose  a  player,  there's 
always  a  sound  reason  behind  it,"  said  Berling. 
"But  in  choosing  a  Gynt  you've  got  to  observe  all 
the  exceptions — rags  and  patches,  whims,  emotions, 
monkey-shine,  vast  ideals.  He's — Grantland  has  a 
peculiar  fascination.  There's  a  whim  to  him,  and 
a  mental  nimbleness.  You  don't  want  an  intellec- 
tual interpretation  of  Gynt,  I  take  it." 

"Pshaw!  Gynt  wasn't  intellectual.  He  was  any 
badly  aimed  egotist  with  his  eyes  always  turned  in 
on  himself." 

"Ah,  that's  it!"  Berling  rubbed  his  fingers  and 
brought  the  legs  of  his  chair  down  with  a  thump. 
"That's  it!  You  can't  make  a  Peer  Gynt  out  of  a 


74  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Broadway  comedian — not  overnight  There's  one 
Gyntish  quality  that  Broadway  can't  teach  'em/' 

"What's  that?"  Worth  seemed  a  little  amused 
and  inclined  to  chuckle. 

"Imagination,"  said  Karl  Berling. 

Bulkeley  Worth's  face  at  once  straightened  its 
thinking  lines. 

"You  don't  think  he  has  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"You're  seasoned  enough  in  the  theatre  to  realise 
that  Grantland's  performance  to-night  was  a  patch- 
work of  tricks  out  of  the  bag.  It  was  a  clever  bag, 
a  charming  bag  in  lots  of  ways,  and  quite  character- 
istic of  the  man.  But  a  man  worthy  of  acting  Ib- 
sen's supreme  poetical  drama  must  have  a  genuine 
imagination.  You  can't  know  the  invisible  Boyg 
is  there  saying,  'Go  roundabout!'  unless  you  have 
eyes  inside  your  soul.  You  can't  wander  from  the 
Gendin-Edge  to  the  Egyptian  Sphinx,  trying  to  find 
yourself  and  lying  like  fury  about  it,  unless  you  have 
that  creative  quality — imagination." 

"If  you'll  stop  talking  like  a  dramatic  critic," 
groaned  Worth,  throwing  himself  into  his  swivel- 
chair,  "maybe  you  can  give  me  some  real  help." 

Berling  took  up  his  hat  and  arose  to  go. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  I've  been  impertinent, 
Bulkeley."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "All  the  advice 
I  can  give  you  is  the  Scotch  *ca  canny' — go  slow.  I 
don't  say  Grantland  isn't  a  find — a  big  find.  I'm 
really  on  the  verge  of  saying  he's  quite  wonderful. 
But  it's  a  matter  of  cold  cash — seventy-five  thousand 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         75 

dollars,  some  of  it  mine.  Before  you  put  anything 
on  paper  you  ought  to  find  out  if  he's  got  that 
seventy-five  thousand  dollar  quality " 

"Imagination  ?"  asked  Worth  somewhat  ironi- 
cally. 

Berling  nodded  with  a  queer,  knowing  wink  as  he 
opened  the  door  to  the  spiral  staircase  and  closed  it 
softly  behind  him. 

It  was  Wednesday  morning,  toward  noon,  when 
the  manager,  carrying  a  package  under  his  arm, 
entered  the  wholesale  feather  establishment  of  Ber- 
ling &  Baum  in  University  Place.  Walking  down 
aisles  of  bales  and  boxes,  across  a  bleak  loft  of  vast 
dimensions,  he  came  upon  the  glass-inclosed  com- 
partment wherein  sat  Karl  Berling  at  a  desk  beside 
a  cabinet  of  gorgeous  plumes,  arranged  in  rows  and 
neatly  tagged  with  the  price  code  of  the  firm.  Ber- 
ling was  dictating  to  a  stenographer. 

".  .  .  your  consignment  of  forty-six  A-i  Cali- 
fornia plumes,  shipped  as  per  agreement,  in- 
sured  " 

"Oh,  hello,  Bulkeley!  You  may  go,  Miss  Rose- 
garten." 

Berling  wheeled  out  a  chair,  and  Worth  seated 
himself. 

"How  about  our  friend  Peer — hey  ?" 

"Just  look  over  these,"  replied  Worth  rather  eva- 
sively, as  he  began  to  untie  his  bundle,  revealing  a 
pile  of  water-colour  sketches.  "Peer  Gynt  ascends 


76  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

the  peak  to  the  Troll  King's  palace/'  the  manager 
explained,  showing  a  sketch  representing  ice  and 
snowy  mountains,  a  path  along  a  cliff  above  frosty 
firs.  " 

"Excellent!  Streiber's  work?"  inquired  Berling, 
his  black  eyes  snapping. 

"Um!"  agreed  Worth,  busily  pencilling  on  the 
margin.  He  shoved  the  water-colours  toward  his 
friend.  "Get  the  imagination  in  that  Morocco  scene 
— simplicity,  colour— see  the  Troll  King's  palace 
in  two  shades  of  blue." 

"That  ought  to  cost  about  fifteen  thousand,  exclu- 
sive of  costuming,"  remarked  Berling.  He  lit  a 
cigar  and  faced  about.  "You've  decided,  then  ?" 

"Karl,"  said  the  manager,  putting  the  pencil  back 
in  his  pocket,  "I've  had  this  dream  for  nearly  five 
years." 

"You've  decided,  then?"  repeated  Berling  monot- 
onously. 

"That's  a  contract,"  said  Worth,  fishing  a  folded 
document  from  his  overcoat. 

Berling,  his  broad  olive  face  set  hard,  unfolded 
the  paper  and  glanced  swiftly  at  the  bottom  of  an 
inside  page. 

"Not  signed  yet,  I  see,"  he  commented  sharply. 
Then  he  turned  over  another  page,  and  clicked  a 
corner  of  his  mouth.  "Five  years,  open  and  shut — 
youVe  named  an  awful  salary." 

"Grantland  hasn't  seen  it  yet.    We've  talked  over 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise          77 

terms.  You  must  confess  that  he  showed  imagina- 
tion in  naming  his  price." 

"Yes — the  Broadway  sort.  But  say,  why  don't 
you  put  something  about  imagination  into  this  docu- 
ment?" 

"Don't  guy  me,  Karl  r 

"I  never  was  more  serious  in  my  life," — Berling 
looked  his  words  as  he  said  them, — "and  I  should 
never  take  those  tremendous  risks  unless  I  knew  the 
man  was  qualified  for  the  part.  I  am  enthusiastic 
about  your  man,  and  no  one  would  like  to  see  him 
succeed  more  than  I — for  your  sake  and  mine.  But 
I'm  cautious.  I'm  a  Jew." 

"I've  arranged  to  have  lunch  with  him  at  half  past 
twelve."  Worth  refolded  the  paper  and  consulted 
his  watch.  "I  think  our  talk  to-day  will  be  decisive." 

"You're  probably  right,  Bulkeley.  You  have  a 
knack  for  picking  people.  You're  probably  right." 

Berling  again  turned  to  the  sordid  details  of  the 
wholesale  feather  business  as  his  friend  disappeared 
down  the  aisle  of  pasteboard  boxes. 

But  the  front  door  had  no  sooner  clicked  shut 
than  Berling  had  punched  a  button  summoning  Miss 
Rosegarten. 

"Call  a  taxicab!"  he  commanded  sharply. 

Homer  Grantland,  clad  in  garments  a  trifle  in 
advance  of  his  contemporaries,  appeared  at  luncheon 
fifteen  minutes  late.  He  greeted  Worth  cordially, 
apologised  gracefully,  waved  a  hand  of  kindly  pat- 


78  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

ronage  to  admirers  about  the  room,  and  accepted  a 
cocktail.  The  talk  assumed  the  unsatisfactory,  fenc- 
ing nature  peculiar  to  humanity  on  the  verge  of  con- 
tracts or  matrimonial  proposals. 

During  the  wait  for  the  actor,  Worth  had  taken 
the  contract  from  his  pocket  and  laid  it  on  a  chair 
under  the  pile  of  sketches.  As  they  talked  he  was 
aware  that  Grantland's  clear,  roving  eye  from  time 
to  time  dwelt  curiously  upon  the  parcel. 

"Those  are  sketches,"  Worth  volunteered,  by  way 
of  approach,  "for  a  spectacular  production  I've  had 
in  mind  for  a  long  time." 

"I  didn't  know  you  went  in  for  that  sort  of 
thing,"  said  the  actor  casually.  "I  thought  you  fan- 
cied smaller  productions." 

"This  is  to  be  an  experiment  with  me.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I'm  considering " 

"Hello,  Bulkeley!" 

The  familiar  voice  of  Karl  Berling  came  close  to 
his  ear  and  the  face  of  the  feather  merchant  smiled 
over  their  dialogue. 

"Hello,  Karl !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were 
bound  this  way?  I  should  have  given  you  a  lift." 
Worth  smiled  back  and  motioned  his  friend  to  a 
chair. 

"Just  been  called  up-town,"  the  Jew  explained, 
"and  the  half-way  house  was  a  temptation." 

"Have  a  cock-tail.  I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Grant- 
land  about  his  work." 

"I'm  in  the  feather  business,"  Berling  remarked, 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise          79 

a  favourite  explanation  of  his,  "and  I  don't  suppose 
I've  a  right  to  express  an  opinion  to  an  artist.  But  I 
should  like  to  be  permitted  to  say,  Mr.  Grantland, 
that  I  think  you  are  doing  big  things  in  your  field. 
Broadway  musical  comedy  may  be  only  a  potato- 
field " 

"Or  an  onion  field,"  Grantland  interrupted,  care- 
fully addressing  his  remarks  and  attention  to  Worth. 

"The  onion,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Berling,  thrusting 
his  head  forward,  "becomes  a  lily,  under  proper 
cultivation — we've  said  that  before,  haven't  we, 
Worth?" 

The  manager  nodded. 

"In  Bermuda  I  have  seen  acres  and  acres  of 
Easter  lilies,  Christ's  lilies,  massed  together  like  a 
choir  of  angels  under  the  island  sun.  The  lily  is  an 
onion  plus  imagination." 

"I  suppose  you  can  make  a  canary  out  of  a  crow 
along  the  same  line  of  argument  ?"  Grantland  asked 
this,  fastening  his  cool  gaze  upon  Berling's  scarf- 
pin. 

"Aha!  When  you  speak  of  birds  you've  got  me 
on  my  own  grounds.  A  canary?  No.  But  a  crow's 
rather  remarkable,  now  that  you  bring  him  into  the 
discussion.  The  most  beautiful  thing  that  lives  or 
walks — I  hope  the  ladies  will  forgive  this  super- 
lative— is  the  bird  of  paradise.  Scientifically?  A 
crow!  If  you  won't  take  my  word  for  it,  go  over 
to  the  Museum  of  Natural  History  and  they'll  tell 
you  what  I  say  is  true.  He's  a  crow — a  crow  plus." 


8o  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Plus  what?"  inquired  the  actor. 

"Imagination.  The  onion  becomes  a  lily.  When 
old  corbie  turns  poet,  he  flies  to  the  tropics  and  puts 
on  royal  robes.  Otherwise  he  stays  in  New  Jersey 
and  robs  cornfields.  Last  year  I  followed  him  to 
the  Malay  Archipelago,  this  royal  crow  with  his 
genius  for  beauty,  and  I  saw  him.  I  saw  him  with 
my  own  eyes.  Let  me  tell  you." 

Regardless  of  the  waiters  sidling  close  to  his 
chair,  and  the  mumbling  conversation  of  many  men 
at  small  tables,  the  Jew  fixed  his  hearers  with  a  gaze 
that  became  suddenly  vivid  with  fire.  The  manager 
leaned  his  chin  on  his  knuckles,  and  the  actor  tilted 
back  in  his  chair  as  Berling  spoke. 

"  'Fliers  of  the  sun/  they  call  these  birds, — pos- 
seros  de  sol  in  the  Portuguese  dialect, — because  the 
old  rovers  who  brought  them  into  the  European 
market,  stuffed  with  straw  and  spitted  on  sticks  of 
aromatic  wood,  showed  them  as  the  natives  had  pre- 
pared their  pelts  for  market,  with  their  feet  re- 
moved; and  this  inspired  the  myth  that  they  never 
rested,  like  common  birds,  upon  earth,  but  spun 
their  glory  of  plumage  forever  skyward  in  the 
course  of  the  sun. 

"Fliers  of  the  sun!  How  well  I  remember  the 
day,  when  I  was  a  boy  of  twelve,  that  a  dark  fellow 
speaking  Spanish  brought  one  of  these  exotic  pelts 
into  my  father's  feather  store  in  University  Place. 
It  was  the  first  bird  of  paradise  I  had  ever  seen,  and 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         81 

I  remember,  as  he  unpacked  it  from  its  tropic  crate 
of  pandanus  leaves,  what  a  shock  it  gave  me  to  think 
that  a  thing  so  imperial  in  its  adornment,  so  enchant- 
ing in  its  arrangement  of  lacy  cascades  and  fiery 
streamers  flowing  backward  like  the  trail  of  a  comet, 
should  be  exhibited  here  impaled  on  a  stick,  stuffed 
with  straw,  utterly  dried  up  in  its  vital  parts,  and 
bereft  of  the  life  that  made  it  proud  in  the  forests 
of  nutmeg  and  palm  where  nothing  is  too  beautiful 
to  be  real.  You  see,  I'm  in  the  feather  business, 
and  the  romance  of  plumage  is  in  my  blood,  I  think. 

"A  surge  of  boyish  indignation  went  through  me, 
I  remember,  to  think  that  a  thing  so  perfect  could 
not  be  let  live  in  a  setting  which  must  be  as  royally 
beautiful  as  itself.  Strange  to  say,  considering  my 
profession,  I  was  never  a  hunter  by  instinct.  I  never 
thought  of  the  plumes  and  aigrettes,  which  my 
father  handled  in  gross  like  so  much  dry  goods,  as 
things  to  be  taken,  at  the  expense  of  life,  from  in- 
offending  creatures  on  strange  rocks  and  in  deep 
wildernesses.  So,  when  I  first  beheld  the  bird  of 
paradise  shrunken  and  pawed  over  by  the  grimy 
hands  of  that  Spanish  adventurer,  a  whim  came  into 
my  heart  which  never  left  me  until  it  was  satisfied. 
I  wanted  to  travel  to  those  exotic  islands.  I  wanted 
to  see  the  bird  in  his  living  glory — and  I  wanted  to 
let  him  live.  You  see  my  point.  I  was  a  seeker,  not 
a  hunter. 

"Well,  my  father  sold  the  bird  of  paradise  skin  to 
an  up-town  milliner,  and  I  seldom  saw  another  like 


82  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

it;  we  didn't  carry  that  sort  of  merchandise.  I  took 
my  place  as  the  head  of  the  firm  when  I  was  twenty- 
seven.  It  was  nearly  twenty  years  later  before  my 
dream  came  true  and  I  saw  my  bird  alive  and  in  his 
jungle. 

"A  year  ago  last  February,  we  set  out  in  a  Malay 
prau  manned  by  twenty-eight  Mohammedans  and 
Chinese.  We  sailed  in  the  path  of  the  westerly 
monsoon,  and  after  a  week  of  darkness,  during 
which  the  Moslems  prayed  and  tacked  and  clat- 
tered their  great  rattan  sail  up  and  down  like  a 
magnificent  window-blind,  heaven  showed  in  a 
tropic  wilderness  of  blue,  the  sea  gleamed  lavender 
and  green  and  brown,  and  our  native  skipper  spoke 
reverently  of  manuk  denuta,  'God's  bird/  which 
we  were  to  see,  as  your  Christian  crusaders  perhaps 
beheld  the  Grail  arising  out  of  wild  adventure. 

"I  was  to  see  the  bird  of  paradise.  You'll  under- 
stand my  enthusiasm,  won't  you  ?  It  was  the  dream 
of  the  thing  that  had  got  in  my  blood  since  first  I 
beheld  that  enchanted  peltry  in  my  father's  store. 
When  I  saw  those  rosy  wings  and  lacy  feathers 
touched  with  gold,  something  inside  me  created  the 
Forest  of  the  Bird — aisle  after  aisle  of  woven 
trunks  with  tropic  mosses  drooping  heavy-green  to 
the  floreate  ferns  below  from  which  scarlet  fowl 
and  huge,  bat-winged  butterflies  arose  in  the  arti- 
ficial twilight.  I  had  imagined  these  things.  And 
when,  on  the  seventh  day,  dainty  flotillas  of  flying- 
fishes  rippled  the  opalescent  waters  and  fluttered 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise          83 

mysteriously  back  into  unknown  deeps,  I  was  wildly 
elated,  because  I  had  imagined  that,  too. 

"On  the  morning  of  the  ninth  day  a  great  head- 
land of  emerald  and  pink  hove  before  our  bows, 
showing  innumerable  fronded  tops  waving  on  the 
heights  and  a  volcano  like  a  stupendous  pyramid 
looming  in  the  background.  We  had  a  half-caste 
captain — they  called  him  a  juragan — with  one  eye, 
and  there  was  a  biologist  named  Sorg  who  headed 
the  expedition. 

"Well,  tousle-headed  natives,  naked  and  blue- 
black  like  ripe  plums,  came  skipping  out  of  the 
crescent  harbour  in  Robinson  Crusoe  canoes,  and  as 
they  clambered  over  the  side  of  our  pran  they  gib- 
bered and  laughed  and  danced  about  in  a  manner 
that  seemed  insanely  galvanised  with  the  spirit  of 
this  strange  place  where  the  Garden  of  Edea 
seemed  about  to  topple  down  on  us  from  overhead 
as  it  waved  upon  tall  cliffs  above  the  harbour.  They 
took  us  ashore  in  a  war-canoe — me  and  Sorg  and 
the  Mohammedan  captain  named  AH.  A  dozen  of 
the  Malay  crew  came  also ;  but  the  rest  refused,  be- 
cause the  island  was  enchanted,  they  said,  and  there 
the  Bird  of  Paradise  was  a  holy  spirit  who  flew  but 
once  before  the  eyes  of  any  man. 

"The  Bird  of  Paradise!  How  my  childhood 
dreams  associated  him  with  these  marvels. 

"We  slept  that  night  on  slabs  of  palm-pith  in  a 
dirty,  stilted  hut  belonging  to  the  head  of  the  tribe. 
He  might  have  been  a  cannibal,  for  his  face  was 


84  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

very  brutal,  and  he  spoke  in  sibilant  gutturals,  point- 
ing constantly  inland.  The  Bird  was  seldom  seen 
any  more,  as  AH  explained  it,  and  it  would  be  three 
days'  journey  through  the  craggy  jungle  to  reach 
his  dancing-place  among  the  giant  fig-trees.  It 
might  be  more,  Ali  went  on  after  listening  to  the 
head  man,  because  there  was  a  tribal  war  in  the 
interior  and  the  rival  clan  had  warmed  their  bake- 
ovens.  It  was  just  before  sunrise  when  the  chief 
told  us  this. 

"The  quest  of  the  Bird !  The  native  chief  hinted 
unspeakable  terrors  awaiting  us  somewhere  in  that 
enchanted  wilderness;  yet  I  tugged  like  a  school- 
boy to  be  away  and  into  the  midst  of  vast  adven- 
ture. Strange,  isn't  it?  I'm  born  and  bred  in  a 
family  of  commercial  Jews ;  I'm  past  middle  age  and 
my  figure  is  not  romantic ;  yet  Ponce  de  Leon  never 
buckled  on  a  casque  of  silver  to  seek  youth's  foun- 
tain with  a  diviner  romance  than  thrilled  me  that 
morning  as  we  struck  forth,  Sorg,  Ali,  and  I,  into 
the  jungle.  All  day  long  we  slid  and  scrambled 
down  ravines  or  swung  ourselves  into  space  on 
vines,  down,  down  into  the  twilight  of  giant  vege- 
tation through  which  our  squad  of  native  bearers 
hacked  a  way  for  our  ascent  into  a  wilder  height  be- 
yond. In  a  wonderful  hot,  damp  valley,  our  Malay 
captain  stopped  suddenly  and  pointed  above.  We 
were  under  a  canopy  of  orchids — thousands  of 
them,  curious,  unnatural  things,  like  the  fingers  of 
women  stained  with  blood  upon  the  tips.  Sorg,  the 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         85 

biologist,  classified  them  under  an  ugly  Latin  name ; 
but  AH  pressed  the  lucky  amulet  at  his  throat  and 
prayed. 

"  'Master/  he  said,  'one  should  not  touch  these 
fingers  of  death.  Many  men  have  been  killed  by 
vampires  through  doing  so/ 

"Sorg  laughed  and,  reaching  to  a  lower  branch, 
plucked  one  of  the  blossoms,  examining  it  with  his 
glass. 

"  "Allah !'  cried  the  little  Mohammedan,  'now  he 
will  surely  die/ 

"  'Superstition !'  grunted  Sorg,  and  dropped  the 
specimen  in  his  kit. 

"Again  we  swung  upward  into  the  daylight, 
climbing  on  vines  that  lay  matted  like  giant's  hair  a 
hundred  feet  down  the  cliff-side.  Everything  con- 
tained colour  for  me.  I  felt  that  each  day,  each 
hour,  of  our  struggling  progress  forward  was  bring- 
ing us  nearer  to  that  fairy  world — the  land  of  the 
Bird. 

"And  the  moon  of  those  nights! — a  globe  of 
luminous  nectar.  So  close  it  seemed,  at  times,  that 
the  upper  branches  of  the  fig  tree  under  which  we 
lay  might  have  swept  it  from  the  sky.  On  one  of 
these  nights  we  heard  a  new  and  terrible  note,  a 
distant  cadence  like  this — pung-pung-pung.  At  the 
sound,  all  of  our  native  bearers  suddenly  arose  from 
a  squat  to  a  crouch,  then  huddled  together  with  the 
expression  of  wolf-haunted  sheep. 


86  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"  'Drums !'  whispered  Ali  in  my  ear.  'They  are 
hunting-men.  They  have  found  our  trail/ 

"Even  while  he  was  saying  this,  our  natives  be- 
gan to  scatter  at  a  skulking  trot  into  the  shadowy 
forest.  Ali,  clutching  me  by  the  arm,  dragged  me 
into  the  hollow  of  a  decayed  tree- trunk,  and  crept 
in  beside  me.  Sorg,  I  could  see  dimly,  was  huddled 
in  the  underbrush  a  few  yards  away.  I  think  it 
was  about  an  hour  we  waited  there,  breathless,  the 
jungle  alive  with  demons  unknown  to  us.  The 
drum-beats  had  stopped.  Everything  was  perfectly, 
horribly  silent.  At  last  the  biologist  did  something 
I  have  never  been  able  to  explain.  He  arose  from 
his  hiding-place,  walked  into  the  open,  and  stretched 
himself,  quite  at  ease.  I  could  see  poor  Sorg  stand- 
ing conspicuously  in  a  patch  of  moonlight.  I  whis- 
tled to  signal  him;  but  Ali  clapped  a  strong  hand 
over  my  mouth.  At  the  instant  three  black  forms 
loomed  in  the  light.  They  were  small  figures, — 
perfectly  naked  they  seemed  to  be, — and  each  car- 
ried something  in  his  hand.  Silhouetted  in  moon- 
light, I  could  see  an  arm  go  back.  Something 
flashed  through  the  silvery  vapour  with  a  whir  like 
a  night-bird's  wing,  and  the  biologist  doubled  up 
and  went  down  with  a  queer  grunt. 

"I  reached  for  my  rifle.  It  was  not  there.  I  had 
left  it  under  the  tree  where  I  had  slept,  a  hundred 
yards  away.  I  saw  a  naked  black  thing  carrying  a 
club  walk  deliberately  toward  the  fallen  man.  I 
saw — bah!  they  dragged  him  away  by  the  heels. 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         87 

And  I  can  still  hear  the  dreadful  sound  of  that  blow, 
see  the  sinister  movement  of  those  monsters  draw- 
ing their  prey  through  the  heavenly  moonlit  Para- 
dise. 

"Once  again  during  the  night  I  heard  their  war- 
drum,  far  away.  Thrice  I  thought  I  heard  screams ; 
but  strange  owls  haunt  those  jungles. 

"Next  morning's  sunrise  found  my  Mohammedan 
captain  praying  alone  beside  me. 

"  'They  will  be  eaten/  he  said  simply.  'It  is  two 
days  back  to  the  village  and  two  to  the  Bird  of 
Paradise.  Which  way  shall  we  go  ?' 

"  To  the  Bird  of  Paradise/  I  replied. 

"  'It  is  always  that  way/  he  said  softly.  The 
hunt ' 

1  'I'm  not  a  hunter/  I  answered  earnestly.  'I 
am  a  lover  of  beauty,  and  I  have  come  to  see  this 
marvel  alive  in  its  forest.  Why  should  I  wish  to 
kill  the  thing  that  charms  me  with  its  beauty  ?' 

"  'What  use  is  the  bird,  if  not  to  kill  ?'  Ali  rested 
his  blue  turban  on  his  bare  knees  and  stared  con- 
templatively toward  the  ground. 

'  'His  use  is  to  give  joy  in  his  living — to  be  seen 
once  and  always  remembered.  One  does  not  shoot 
at  angels/ 

"  'Master/  said  Ali,  turning  mysterious  black 
eyes  upon  me,  'others  have  said  that  also.' 

"During  those  two  days  of  tramping  and  starving 
and  lurking  away  from  the  great  fear  that  haunted 
the  jungle,  Ali  marvelled  at  my  grit.  I  am  not  an 


88  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

outdoor  man,  you  understand,  and  I  am  not  fearless 
by  nature.  But  I  was  lured  on  by  a  spell  that  was 
greater  than  fatigue,  stranger  than  fear. 

"Had  our  expedition,  of  necessity,  led  us  through 
the  village  of  the  cannibals  with  their  hideous  bake- 
ovens,  I  still  would  have  pushed  forward.  It's  part 
of  my  nature,  I  think.  And,  you  see,  I  had  been  all 
my  life  dreaming  this  dream. 

"On  the  second  afternoon  I  slipped  in  a  ravine 
and  twisted  my  leg— I  limp  a  little  still,  you  observe. 
I  walked  with  great  pain,  but  I  still  dragged  on.  AH 
wanted  to  rest  over  a  day ;  but  I  persisted  in  mov- 
ing. The  moon  was  again  swinging  her  bright 
globe  above  the  palms  when  we  came  upon  a  little 
clearing,  roofed  over  with  lacy  branches  through 
which  the  lambent  vapour  sifted  down. 

"  'Rest  here !'  said  Ali  suddenly. 

"  'But  the  Bird !'  I  persisted. 

"  'He  comes  at  dawn/  the  little  captain  said,  and 
spread  his  mat  among  the  giant  brakes. 

"It  is  prodigious,  the  way  these  tropic  dawns 
come  on — like  thunder,  as  Kipling  puts  it.  There 
we  lay  among  the  jungle-growth,  reeking  with  dew ; 
and  I  must  needs  touch  Ali  to  see  if  he  was  still 
beside  me,  so  heavy  was  the  blue-black  night  that 
hung  over  us. 

'  'It  will  be  dawn  now/  said  Ali,  and  I  laughed 
at  his  assurance.  My  hand,  as  I  thrust  it  out  in  the 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         89 

darkness,  struck  something  coldly  metallic  against 
which  my  finger-nails  rang  sharply. 

"  'What's  that  ?'  I  asked  my  guide  quickly. 

"  'Gun/  said  Ali,  softly. 

"  'I  won't  use  it/  I  assured  him,  thrusting  the 
barrel  aside.  He  made  no  reply,  but  I  could  tell 
by  the  movement  of  the  brakes  that  he  had  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Then  dawn  leaped  in.  The  serpentine  contour 
of  aerial  roots  was  suddenly  outlined  against  a  sky 
which  seemed  to  turn,  even  as  I  gazed,  from  deep 
lapis  lazuli  to  living  sapphire.  Day,  white  day,  now 
sifted  in  one  thick,  opalescent  shaft  of  light  through 
the  net  of  interlacing  leaves  above,  and  the  glade 
into  which  I  looked  was  one  of  the  perfect  things  I 
have  seen.  It  was  as  if  God  had  set  this  shrine 
lovingly  for  his  marvel  to  appear  in. 

"  'What  a  setting  for  the  Bird !'  I  thought  as  I 
lay  there,  scarcely  breathing.  Ali's  beady  eyes 
stared  fixedly  into  the  bush. 

"Suddenly — wok-wok!  It  was  not  a  pretty  call. 
The  Bird  of  Paradise  is  the  poetry  of  crowdom,  as 
I  have  just  said. 

"  'Manuk  denwta!'  whispered  Ali. 

"My  breath  stopped  and  I  was  giddy  with  ex- 
citement. Wok-wok!  The  harsh  cry  came  closer. 
A  dainty  flock  of  pink  and  yellow  parrakeets  flut- 
tered through,  screaming  joyously  like  elfin  outrid- 
ers before  a  royal  progress.  Wok-wok! 

"The  strident  note  shrilled  just  above  the  glade. 


90  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

There  was  a  flutter  among  the  higher  leafage.  And 
— I  swear  it,  gentlemen — that  angelic  vision  of  a 
Bird  fluttered  down  in  such  a  way  that  it  seemed 
to  be  borne  in  on  a  shaft  of  light  that  slid  diagonally 
across  the  dell.  The  glory,  the  beauty,  the  pride  of 
the  thing  was  overpowering  as  the  vision  flashed 
down,  down,  dripping  emerald  from  its  wonderful 
throat,  flashing  rose  from  its  wings,  trailing  filmy 
yards  of  gold-tipped  lace  from  its  back  and  tail. 
Lightly  as  some  gorgeous  cloud,  it  lit  in  the  very 
center  of  that  shaft  of  light.  God  made  the  pea- 
cock vain,  but  he  made  the  Bird  of  Paradise  proud 
and  gracious,  to  stand  there  like  a  king  on  his  bridal 
morning — radiant,  undaunted,  attired  for  love. 

"  'His  mate  is  outside/  whispered  AH,  crawling 
to  my  side  as  sinuously  as  a  snake.  'He  has  come 
to  dance  for  her.' 

"Already  the  wonderful  bird  was  beginning  a 
rhythmic,  undulating  dipping,  swaying  from  his 
neck  and  chest  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  short, 
graceful  step  from  side  to  side.  At  the  same  time, 
his  wings  and  the  great  mass  of  silvery  plumage 
under  his  wings  spread  out  in  such  a  riot  of  beauty 
that  the  bird  seemed  embowered  in  its  own  plumage. 

"One-two,  right  and  left,  his  splendid  throat  low- 
ered in  a  graceful  curve  until  his  beak  lay  almost 
level  with  his  talons,  he  kept  time  with  some  inaudi- 
ble nature  melody.  Perhaps  God  had  given  him  the 
gift  of  drawing  miraculous  sounds  from  the  ether, 
just  as  he  had  endowed  him  with  power  to  gather 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         91 

ravishing  colours  from  the  sun.  Higher  and  higher 
rose  his  wings,  wider  and  wider  flew  the  glory  of 
his  plumage  as  if  he  would  rise  from  earth,  not  by 
flight,  but  by  a  fiery  levitation.  Then  suddenly  the 
spell  broke. 

"AH  had  made  an  abrupt  movement.  The  bird 
ceased  his  dance,  stood  at  gaze,  and  craned  his  neck 
suspiciously.  Softly,  smoothly,  Ali  slipped  the 
shot-gun  into  my  hand. 

"'Why?'  I  whispered. 

"  'Shoot !'  he  commanded  softly. 

"  'I  did  not  come  to  destroy/  I  argued,  thrusting 
the  weapon  aside  quickly. 

"  'Master!'  Ali's  voice  was  very  pleading  in  my 
ear.  'Shoot  now  or  he  will  fly!' 

"  'Let  him/  I  said,  and  something  within  me 
hoped  that  this  perfect  thing  would  fade  from  sight 
and  escape  the  hunterlust  that  was  beginning  to  pos- 
sess me ;  for  already  I  could  feel  the  shot-gun  in  my 
hand  and  my  finger  on  the  trigger.  At  the  instant, 
the  bird,  as  if  sensitised  to  feel  malevolence  in  the 
air,  depressed  his  rosy  wings,  drew  in  the  nimbus  of 
his  silvery  plumage,  and  stalked  out  of  the  light  into 
the  shadow  where  I  could  only  dimly  see  him,  lis- 
tening. 

"  'See,  Master/  Ali  breathed  in  my  ear,  'already 
he  goes  from  us,  and  he  will  not  come  back  again/ 

"  'It  is  well/  I  said.  But  I  could  hear  the  click 
of  the  breech-lock  as  my  companion  slid  a  cartridge 
into  the  gun. 


92  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"The  weapon  now  lay  across  my  elbow.  The 
Bird  of  Paradise  still  lurked  in  shadow,  as  drab  and 
dull  as  any  common  fowl  of  earth. 

"  'It  is  over/  I  said,  letting  out  my  breath,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  holding  ever  so  long.  'We 
have  seen  him.  Let  us  go/ 

"  'Not  yet !'  answered  the  Malay,  and  he  uttered 
a  queer,  short  island  laugh.  'See !  He  comes  again/ 
he  whispered. 

"Once  more  the  bird  stalked  forth  from  his  re- 
treat and  stood  in  the  bath  of  light.  Like  two  great 
joyous  banners  his  rosy  wings  went  up;  like  the 
sparks  from  a  shooting  star  his  plumage  blazed 
around  him ;  and  he  stood  there  poised  before  me. 
The  gun  was  in  my  grasp. 

"  'Shoot,  or  you  may  see  him  no  more/  pleaded 
the  Malay  captain  softly  in  my  ear.  'Shoot,  and  his 
plumes  are  yours  to  hold  in  your  hand/ 

"I  fired,  and  closed  my  eyes.  When  at  last  I 
arose  to  look,  that  celestial  dell  was  rank  with  pow- 
der-smoke; feathers,  broken,  messed,  rumpled,  lay 
everywhere  about;  and  a  bloody,  ragged  fowl,  un- 
gainly as  a  barn-yard  hen,  flapped  and  twisted  in  his 
death  struggle. 

"My  dream  was  over.  Lust  had  conquered  love. 
I  had  shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise/' 

Karl  Berling  drew  a  jewelled  watch  from  his 
elaborate  waistcoat.  Neither  Worth  nor  Grantland 
uttered  a  sound. 


He  Shot  the  Bird  of  Paradise         93 

"Furies!"  he  said.  "A  quarter  of  two.  I've 
taken  half  your  noon.  Good-bye." 

He  shouldered  his  overcoat  and  swung  busily  out 
of  the  place.  Worth  and  Grantland  sat  facing  each 
other.  The  spell  of  the  story  was  still  in  the  man- 
ager's eyes — the  vision  of  exotic  forests,  midnight 
drums,  valleys  of  orchids,  and  the  Bird  which,  drip- 
ping emeralds  and  trailing  silver,  flew  but  once  be- 
fore the  gaze  of  any  man. 

The  actor,  his  rather  cold  eyes  fixed  on  the  back 
of  the  retreating  Berling,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"There  are  too  many  Jews  around  this  place," 
he  said. 

Bulkeley  Worth  reached  for  the  package  on  the 
chair  and  brought  forth  the  contract,  folded  it  care- 
fully, and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 


THE  HIGHEST 


THE  President  of  the  United  States  sat  be- 
hind much  bunting,  in  the  box  of  honour 
overlooking  the  aviation  grounds.  He 
winced  slightly  when  a  long  French  monoplane,  in 
coming  down,  just  missed  the  blue  pylon  to  the 
east. 

"That's  Dubuc,"  said  his  military  aide.  "He 
hasn't  broken  any  record,  that's  sure." 

"And  nothing  else,  I'm  glad  to  see,"  observed  the 
President,  venting  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the  great  bird 
winged  softly  to  earth.  "Ten  thousand  feet  isn't 
regarded  as  very  high  ?" 

"Not  in  these  days.  Any  military  pilot  can  do 
better,  any  morning,  in  an  old-fashioned  Wright. 
You  see,  Mr.  President,  we  have  been  putting  con- 
siderable reliance  in  an  American  machine.  Man 
named  Harwood  designed  it  and  installed  a  new  ro- 
tary engine  called  the  Zwilk.  They're  over  there 
in  Hangar  13,  and  not  a  peep  have  they  made  dur- 
ing the  entire  meet." 

"I  hear  a  biplane  is  not  so  efficient  as  a  mono- 
plane for  altitude  flights,"  remarked  the  President. 

"That's  always  a  quarrel  between  the  two 
94 


The  Highest  95 


schools/'  explained  an  army  aviator.  "Harwood's 
machine  has  done  strange  stunts  in  private  prac- 
tice/' 

"Is  Harwood  expecting  to  fly?" 

"No.  He's  got  a  contract  with  Seth  Hadley, 
that  California  aviator." 

"Hadley!"  exclaimed  the  Chief  of  Staff,  who  sat 
in  the  gold-braided  circle.  "I  saw  him  in  Chicago. 
He's  engaged  for  one  of  our  Government  schools 
next  spring.  Handles  a  biplane  like  a  cat-boat  in  a 
squall.  One  of  these  safe-and-sane  fliers  who  al- 
ways appear  to  be  taking  chances,  yet  never  fail  to 
deliver  the  goods." 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  meet,  and  the  Chief 
Executive  gazed  regretfully  at  the  sinking  sun. 

"If  he  delivers  the  goods,  as  you  put  it,  he  has 
about  three  hours  to  do  it  in,"  he  said. 

Among  the  ladies  of  the  party  the  talk  was  less 
technical. 

"Isn't  it  too  bad  Leonard  Jeffany  didn't  judge 
this  time!"  said  a  young  matron.  "He's  usually 
such  a  fine  figure  of  an  elderly  prince,  fussing  about 
the  course  and " 

"I  hear  his  wife  is  desperately  ill,"  volunteered  a 
dowager. 

"Oh !"  came  a  commiserating  chorus.  "Poor  lit- 
tle Sonia  Fischer!"  .  .  .  "Such  a  child!"  .  .  . 
"Her  family  made  her  marry " 

"Just  like  a  lot  of  women !"  said  a  stout  congress- 
man who  overheard. 


96  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

There  was  an  air  of  worry  and  chagrin  inside 
Hangar  13,  where  men  in  greasy  overalls,  dogged 
from  fatigue,  had  laboured  for  twenty- four  hours 
without  sleep,  grooming  a  balky  biplane,  an  efficient 
monster  whose  upper  planes  overhung  its  lower  and 
whose  covered  fusilage  tapered  in  a  stream  line  back 
to  its  complicated  rudders.  The  luck  of  numbers 
seemed  to  have  cursed  that  guarded  tent,  where  the 
disappointing  Zwilk  rotary  engine  had  sulked  for  a 
week,  had  required  infinite  taking  down,  and  now, 
for  the  first  time,  was  purring  as  sweetly  as  a 
drowsy  cat. 

The  thing  was  ready,  and  Harwood,  the  inventor, 
a  fat  man  whose  untidy  curls  fringed  his  bald  spot 
like  smoke  around  a  dome,  threw  down  his  monkey- 
wrench  with  peevish  energy. 

"Three  hours!'5  he  snarled,  looking  through  a 
crack  in  the  door  up  to  the  zenith  where,  circling 
like  buzzards  over  a  field  of  carnage,  two  winged 
apparitions  milled  monotonously  round  and  round, 
whirring,  whirring  their  harsh  greeting  to  the  de- 
clining sun.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  band 
played  "The  Maxixe."  Harwood,  who  was  nine 
parts  business  man  to  one  part  genius,  snapped  his 
watch  shut  and  wheezed  his  disgust. 

"Are  you  going  to  come  out  of  that  daze?"  he  in- 
quired, crossing  the  shed  and  addressing  a  figure  in 
the  shadow  which  stood  braced  against  a  beam — "a 
something  more  black  than  the  blackness." 

"I've  begged,  borrowed,  and  stolen  a  fortune  to 


The  Highest  97 


bring  you  and  this  machine  here,"  he  went  on.  "I 
won't  pull  out  more  than  even,  even  if  you  do  take 
the  prize — and  there  it  hangs  like  a  plum  with  noth- 
ing to  do  but  reach  for  it.  You've  done  the  trick 
before  in  second-rate  machines.  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  should  get  cold  feet  now." 

"I  haven't  got  cold  feet,"  responded  the  shadowy 
figure  sullenly. 

He  impatiently  tossed  away  his  cap,  and  strode 
into  the  light.  He  was  young,  tall  and  pale,  with 
black  eyes  that  burned  like  dull  coals. 

"Then  listen  to  reason,"  said  Harwood  eagerly. 
"The  machine's  working  like  a  bird.  There's  only 
ten  thousand  feet  to  beat,  and  you've  got  time  to 
do  it  in,  if  you  do  it  now.  There's  twenty  thousand 
easy  money  for  us." 

"I  can't  see  it,"  said  the  aviator  dully,  passing 
his  thumb  across  a  cam-shaft. 

"Seth,  old  boy,"  said  his  manager,  more  in  sor- 
row than  in  anger,  "the  trouble  with  you  is,  you 
haven't  got  any  imagination." 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  replied  the  young  man 
abstractedly ;  then  he  turned  his  gaze  full  upon  his 
persecutor.  "You  know  why  I  won't  go  up.  I'm 
waiting  for  Schneider." 

"That  chauffeur  from  Jeffany's  ?" 

The  aviator  nodded. 

"He's  not  coming.    He's  out  of  town;  he's " 

"Don't  lie  to  me  any  more,"  said  the  young  man, 
without  raising  his  voice. 


98  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Now,  look  here,  Seth!"  The  business  man 
seized  his  employe  by  the  collar  of  his  soft  shirt. 
"Schneider's  just  the  man  you  ought  not  to  see. 
You've  got  to  be  cool  to  do  this  job.  No  nervous- 
ness, no  scenes — no " 

"Then  he's  been  here!  Where  is  he?"  Hadley 
whispered. 

"Outside." 

The  aviator  crowded  past  his  keeper,  slid  back  the 
big  door,  and  rushed  into  the  daylight.  A  short 
man  in  a  chauffeur's  uniform  came  out  of  the  space 
between  the  hangars,  and  at  first  glimpse  Hadley 
could  read  the  news  in  his  coarse  face. 

"Well  ?"  he  asked,  searching  the  other  man's  eyes. 

"She  sent  you  this — the  nurse  gave  it  to  me  for 
you,"  said  Schneider. 

He  dropped  a  small  trinket  into  Hadley's  out- 
stretched hand.  It  was  a  medal  of  cheap  work- 
manship in  the  form  of  a  Maltese  cross. 

"What  for?"  he  asked  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way. 

"Haven't  they  told  you?" 

The  aviator  shook  his  head. 

"She  died  to-day  at  noon." 

The  little  German  stood  for  a  moment,  awk- 
wardly shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  Then 
he  cleared  his  throat  and  walked  away. 

Hadley  did  not  move.  His  solemn  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  promenade  across  the  field,  where  the 
hats  of  numerous  men  and  women  seemed  to  mingle 
and  scatter  like  a  moving  flower-garden.  Why  had 


The  Highest  99 


this  sad,  tragic,  beautiful  thing  come  to  Seth  Had- 
ley,  the  machine-man  without  imagination  ?  Flight, 
to  him,  had  been  a  trade,  and  the  upper  air  his 
workshop.  Surely  there  was  no  poetry  or  wasteful 
twaddle  in  his  ego.  And  yet,  they  had  met  like 
those  moving  flowers  over  there,  he  and  this  strange, 
aristocratic  girl — touched  for  an  instant  and  gone 
their  separate  ways.  And  now  she  was  dead.  He 
clutched  the  little  Maltese  cross  so  tightly  that  it 
bit  into  his  palm. 

A  plot  of  seeding  grass  in  which  his  feet  were 
sunk  rippled  and  silvered  to  the  rising,  gusty  wind. 
The  flags  above  the  grand-stand  alternately  whipped 
and  sagged.  Instinctively  Seth  Hadley  turned  his 
eyes  air  ward  and  watched  the  perilous  teetering  of 
the  two  aeroplanes  as  they  jockeyed  for  a  landing  in 
the  rising  squall.  Puffy  work — three  hours,  Har- 
wood  had  said.  He  opened  his  hand  and  looked  at 
all  that  had  ever  passed  between  them — that  and  a 
little  more.  She  had  remembered  him,  after  all ! 

"Seth,"  said  the  voice  of  Harwood,  pitched  to  a 
kindly  key,  "the  President  and  Chief  of  Staff  have 
come  all  the  way  from  Washington  to  watch  you 
make  a  record.  Are  you  going  to  disappoint  'em?" 

Hadley  shook  the  plump  hand  rudely  from  his 
shoulder,  and  made  no  reply. 

"It  ought  to  be  a  matter  of  common  honesty  with 
you,  old  man/'  went  on  the  manager,  suppressing 
his  choler.  "You've  always  had  the  reputation  of 
being  the  squarest  man  in  the  sky — no  imagination, 


ioo  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

but  square.  You've  got  the  reputation  of  never 
dumping  a  passenger  or  jumping  a  contract.  Re- 
member, the  Chicago  papers  called  you  'Deliver- 
the-Goods  Hadley'?" 

"Shut  up!"  replied  the  aviator.  "Pull  the  ma- 
chine out  as  quick  as  God'll  let  you." 

"Then  you're  not  going  to  throw  me  down?" 
sighed  Harwood  blissfully. 

"I've  always  done  what  I've  been  hired  to  do!" 
Hadley  ground  his  teeth.  "Fool  that  I  am,  no  man 
or  woman  can  say  I've  ever  welched  or  short- 
changed." 

"I'm  proud  of  you  when  you  talk  like  that,  Seth." 

"Haul  out  the  machine!"  Hadley  growled  sav- 
agely as  he  charged  into  Hangar  13. 


ii 

The  President  and  the  Chief  of  Staff  were  just 
letting  down  their  official  smiles  at  the  retreat  of  a 
squad  of  press  photographers  when  the  aide  said : 
"See  there,  sir!"  and  pointed  toward  Hangar  13. 

"Bully,  he's  going  to  try  it!"  exclaimed  the  Chief 
of  Staff,  with  an  enthusiasm  ill  becoming  so  mighty 
a  commander. 

"Oh — this  is  the  man  Bradley  you  speak  of?" 
The  President  adjusted  his  eye-glasses. 

"Hadley,  Mr.  President,"  said  the  aide.  "An 
American  flier  in  an  American  machine.  He's  go-. 


The  Highest  101 


ing  to  take  to  the  air  in  a  gale  that  has  brought  all 
the  foreigners  to  earth.  And  yet,  they  say  Ameri- 
can aviation  doesn't  deserve  encouragement." 

"Don't  scold  me — go  talk  to  the  Congressman  if 
you  want  an  appropriation."  The  President 
grinned  over  toward  the  portly  statesman.  "He's  a 
member  of  that  soulless  committee,  I  believe." 

The  big  white  biplane,  eager  for  the  wind  and 
clumsy  as  an  albatross  afoot,  came,  escorted  by  lov- 
ing attendants,  from  the  gaping  door.  A  roly-poly 
scarecrow  of  a  man-thing,  a  grotesque  in  pads  and 
cold-proofs,  followed  stiffly  in  the  rear.  It  seemed 
scarcely  possible  that  a  thing  so  swaddled  could  be 
human. 

"And  such  a  suffocating  day!"  exclaimed  one  of 
the  ladies  in  the  President's  box. 

"It's  always  January  up  there,"  an  officer  of  the 
aeronautic  corps  enlightened  her. 

Officials  in  tweeds  and  golf  caps  were  now  sur- 
rounding the  padded  man.  Two  pulled  impressive 
stop-watches  and  examined  the  machine.  Another 
strapped  a  leathery  knapsack  arrangement  between 
the  shoulders  of  the  aviator. 

"Sealed  barograph  to  record  his  height,"  ex- 
plained the  aide  to  the  President. 

Mechanics  now  stood  at  attention  near  the  wings 
of  the  machine.  The  padded  man,  walking  like  a 
manikin,  took  his  seat  between  the  planes.  There 
was  no  theatrical  display  of  examining  things  or 
ordering  folks  about.  His  feet  were  on  the  con- 


IO2  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

trols,  his  mittened  hands  on  the  brakes.  Would  he 
ever  get  away,  he  thought,  up  into  the  air  that 
wanted  him?  So  she  had  sent  him  a  sign  before 
she  went — and  he  had  known  her  so  little,  yet  so 
dearly.  Why  didn't  big  Christophe  turn  over  the 
engine?  A  machinist  was  now  fiddling  with  the 
carbureter.  He  could  hear  the  accustomed  grunts 
of  big  Christophe  attempting  to  swing  the  propel- 
ler on  the  stiff,  stubborn  rotary  engine;  then  came 
the  oily,  regular  throb  through  the  mighty  whir  of 
the  screw.  The  great  bird  strained  to  burst  from 
the  hands  that  held  her.  The  driver  raised  a  sig- 
nalling arm,  and  the  biplane  bounded  like  a  kite  into 
the  face  of  a  windy  rise. 

An  aviator  climbs  like  a  blind  man  ascending  a 
spiral  staircase.  He  mounts  carefully  by  feeling — 
feeling  at  unseen  things.  Sensitive,  protecting,  his 
elevator-planes  guide  him  up  invisible  grades  of  air, 
over  billowy  rollers,  toward  a  zenith  of  unseeable 
fluids.  To  Seth  Hadley  these  mysterious  steeps  had 
always  had  the  commonplace  of  a  country  road  to  a 
suburban  chauffeur.  In  his  three  years  of  "reliable" 
flying  he  had  gloried  in  numerous  newspaper  titles 
symbolic  of  unimaginative  efficiency.  "The  taxi- 
plane  chauffeur"  had  pleased  him  as  a  tribute  to  his 
commonplaceness ;  but  he  had  taken  most  comfort 
in  "Deliver-the-Goods  Hadley."  Literally,  he  had 
never  fallen  down.  He  was  safe  and  honourable, 
and  without  any  fool  notions.  Was  he? 

Six  thousand  feet  above  Garden  City,  the  aero- 


The  Highest  103 


plane  nosed  into  cloud-banks,  and  the  nipping  au- 
tumnal temperature  gave  Hadley  blessed  relief  from 
the  awful  heat  of  the  lower  levels.  Helmeted,  gog- 
gled, bulging  with  layers  of  cloth  and  leather,  this 
futuristic  vision  of  a  flying-man,  rising  to  every 
available  current,  minding  his  pumps,  adjusting 
ailerons  to  tremulous  swirls,  continued  to  ask  him- 
self the  needless  question,  Have  I  been  without  fool 
notions  ? 

He  had  pinned  the  little  Maltese  cross  to  his 
padded  jacket,  and  he  risked  his  life  to  touch  it  lov- 
ingly. Below  him,  looking  down,  he  could  see 
nothing  but  clouds;  and  clouds  encompassed  him 
about  as  if  he  were  struggling  upward  through  a 
deluge  of  cotton  fleece.  The  propeller  burred  with 
deafening  monotony,  yet  it  seemed  awfully  quiet  up 
here.  He  seemed  to  be  working  in  a  perfect  calm 
— nothing  to  do  but  to  circle;  bank  and  rise,  bank 
and  rise.  No  trick  to  it  at  all  in  a  sea  of  placid  milk 
like  this.  Nothing  to  do  but  listen  to  the  tricky 
cylinders,  and  think — and  think. 

Then  the  thought  came  to  him,  "Man  is  born 
unto  trouble,  as  the  sparks  fly  upward/'  Man — 
and  what  about  woman  ?  That's  it !  She  had  gone 
up  like  the  spark — she  and  her  troubles.  Two  tears 
welled  under  his  goggles  and  dried  in  the  increas- 
ing cold.  He  threw  his  elevators  to  a  reckless  angle, 
and  the  great  biplane  reared  upward. 


IO4  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 


in 

More  than  two  years  before,  the  girl's  father 
and  her  fiance  had  brought  her  to  the  aerodrome 
where  Hadley  was  acting  as  instructor.  Theodore 
Jeffany  and  her  father  were  contemporary  in  age, 
and  they  had  yielded  to  her  whim  to  fly,  like  the  in- 
dulgent, elderly  guardians  they  were.  They  had 
treated  him,  as  was  the  wont  of  these  people,  as 
something  between  a  chauffeur  and  a  showman,  and 
he  remembered  that  they  had  tipped  him  hand- 
somely, twenty  dollars  in  addition  to  the  regular 
fee — actually  paid  him  for  the  joy  of  taking  that 
vivid,  beautiful  thing  with  him  into  the  blue.  She 
wasn't  afraid,  she  told  him  when  they  came  down. 
She  was  twenty.  She  wanted  to  be  an  aviatrix,  or 
whatever  they  called  'em.  Her  eyes  were  peculiar; 
clear  like  crystals  with  dark  centres,  when  first  he 
saw  her;  but  they  seemed  to  deepen  to  richer  and 
richer  violet  as  he  knew  her  better.  Under  her 
brown  hair  there  seemed  to  be  golden  fires  forever 
burning.  She  was  neither  a  merry  nor  a  talkative 
girl,  but  when  she  spoke  she  always  said  something. 

"I  want  to  learn,"  she  announced  that  day,  turn- 
ing her  grey  eyes,  not  on  her  father,  but  on  Theo- 
dore Jeffany.  ("She  ought  to  call  him  Uncle," 
Seth  had  thought  at  the  time.) 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly!"  said  the  elderly 


The  Highest  105 


capitalist,  pinching  her  cheek.  "When  shall  we  be- 
gin?" 

"Monday.  Will  Monday  do,  Mr.  Hadley?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  the  aviator. 

"Just  as  good  a  day  as  any,"  blushingly  Seth  had 
replied. 

Her  father  had  said  something  rather  negative 
about  her  breaking  her  neck ;  but  Jeffany  had  pooh- 
poohed  the  matter.  His  air  had  always  been  en- 
tirely proprietorial. 

"She'll  be  perfectly  safe  with  Hadley.  'Deliver 
the  goods'  is  your  motto,  ain't  it,  Hadley?  Per- 
fectly safe.  And  when  you're  entirely  proficient, 
my  dear,  you  can  drop  in  at  my  office  every  night 
and  motor  me  out  by  air.  Ha !" 

She  came  around  Monday  in  a  blue  corduroy 
suit,  and  began  to  take  the  course  under  Hadley's 
special  instruction.  From  the  first  day  it  was  plain 
to  the  patient  Seth  that  this  girl  would  never  make 
an  aviatrix.  These  little  voyages,  to  her,  were 
flights  of  imagination,  not  hard  problems  of  horse- 
power and  wind-resistance.  Vainly  he  had  taken 
her  on  daily  instructional  flights  in  Mary  Jane,  the 
school  machine.  She  showed  a  morbid  taste  for 
pulling  the  wrong  lever.  She  seemed  to  have  no 
fear;  but  when  it  came  to  an  emergency  point 
where  neglect  might  have  been  suicidal,  he  usually 
found  her  with  her  grey  eyes  fixed  in  a  dream  more 
airy  than  the  reach  of  mere  mechanical  wings. 

One    languid,    lazy    afternoon,    when    the    sun 


io6  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

slanted  over  parched  grass  and  all  the  world  was 
golden,  they  were  planing  down  from  a  moderate 
height,  she  leaning  over  his  shoulders  grasping  the 
controls  above  his  hands,  when  he  suddenly  felt 
the  spell  of  her  so  poignantly  that  he  all  but  wrecked 
his  craft  in  precipitate  descent.  As  soon  as  the 
skids  were  settled  safely  on  the  grass,  he  leaped  to 
his  feet  and  faced  her  where  she  sat. 

No  woman  had  ever  looked  at  him  like  that  be- 
fore, he  felt  sure.  The  world  seemed  to  be  coloured 
an  intoxicating  violet  from  her  eyes;  he  was  not 
embarrassed,  as  he  usually  was  in  the  presence  of 
women.  And  he  found  she  had  broken  her  silence. 

"Most  of  the  men  I've  known  have  been  little 
dancing  things  or  office  men.  Some  of  them  play 
polo,  but  that's  just  a  game,  after  all.  How  do  you 
like  Mr.  Jeffany?" 

"I  think  he's  a  very  fine  man,"  answered  Seth 
inadequately. 

"Isn't  he!  A  very  fine  man!"  She  used  the 
strangest  tone.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  take  much  abil- 
ity to  go  along  with  what  somebody  else  gave  you, 
does  it?  I  never  met  a  man  like  you  before.  Your 
business  seems  to  be  shooting  into  new  worlds,  risk- 
ing unknown  paths  every  day  of  your  life." 

"You  don't  need  to  take  it  that  way,  Miss 
Fischer,"  he  laughed.  "This  is  just  a  trade  with 
me.  I've  always  been  a  working  boy,  you  know." 
He,  too,  became  suddenly  confidential.  "My  dad 
was  a  farmer  in  the  Erie  Basin,  and  I  took  a  notion 


The  Highest  107 


to  be  an  inventor.  I  saved  up  money,  went  to  tech 
school  for  a  year,  and  found  there  was  nothing  in 
my  head  but  an  ability  to  run  other  people's  ma- 
chinery. So,  you  see,  I'm  pretty  much  of  a  rough- 
neck." 

"I  think  you're  splendid,"  she  replied  directly, 
looking  up  at  his  thin  dark  face. 

"Thanks  very  much/'  he  said  clumsily.  There 
were  a  thousand  things  he  wanted  to  express. 
Finally  he  handed  her  down  from  her  seat,  and 
grinned.  "D'you  think  you're  aviator  enough  by 
this  time  to  help  me  push  this  little  machine  back 
to  her  shed?" 

That  night  at  the  hotel,  Hadley  asked  Brickell, 
head  instructor  at  the  school,  about  Jeffany  and 
Miss  Fischer  and  her  father. 

"It's  a  Wall  Street  transaction,  and  a  perfectly 
legitimate  one,"  Brickell  explained.  "Jeffany 
caught  Fischer  for  all  he  had  in  wheat.  Fischer 
yelled  for  mercy,  and  passed  over  his  daughter  as 
a  peace  offering." 

Next  day  Seth  determined  to  tell  the  girl  the 
truth  about  her  unfitness  for  aviation.  Common 
sense  commanded  him  to  send  her  away  as  quickly 
as  possible ;  but  there  was  an  instinct  that  urged  him 
to  delay,  for  the  spell  was  on  him  and  he  could  not 
endure  to  break  its  charm.  There  was  another  pre- 
carious week  in  which  her  failure  to  grasp  the  prin- 
ciples of  mechanics  made  flying  a  constant  sport 
with  death. 


loS  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I  never,  never  can  learn  to  drive  it!"  she  con- 
fessed one  day,  after  they  had  landed  with  an  ap- 
palling crash. 

"Well,  now,  perhaps "  he  began  lamely. 

"I've  never  had  any  illusions  about  it,"  she  per- 
sisted. "I  know  I'm  stupid,  and  you  know  it. 
Father  says  I  can't  give  any  more  time  to  it — he's 
going  to  take  me  out." 

"When?" 

"To-day." 

He  had  been  commissioned  to  try  out  a  new 
monoplane  that  afternoon,  so  he  took  her  as  a  pas- 
senger for  a  cross-country  flight.  Thirty  miles 
from  the  home  hangars  the  engine  suddenly  died, 
and  they  were  forced  down  into  a  deserted  stubble- 
field.  A  strut  cracked,  and  the  left  wing  crumpled 
against  a  rusty  harrow  concealed  among  the  weeds. 
He  remembered  how  she  looked,  sitting  calmly  amid 
the  wreckage,  her  solemn,  dreamy  eyes  following  a 
flight  of  crows. 

"I'll  see  if  I  can  find  a  telephone,"  he  said  awk- 
wardly, "and  get  an  auto  to  take  you  home." 

"No  hurry,"  she  answered,  fixing  her  contempla- 
tive gaze  upon  him. 

"It'll  be  dark  in  two  hours,"  he  grunted,  and 
raced  across  the  stubble  to  a  settlement  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

When  he  returned  he  found  the  machine  deserted. 
In  the  shadow  of  an  old  pear  tree  by  the  fence,  he 
spied  a  patch  of  bright  blue,  the  colour  of  her  cloak. 


The  Highest  109 


She  was  reclining  on  one  elbow,  chewing  a  spear  of 
grass. 

"Sit  down  here,"  she  said,  indicating  the  spot 
beside  her. 

He  obeyed  without  a  word,  and  the  violet  light 
seemed  to  encompass  him  again. 

"Seth,"  she  resumed  presently,  "will  you  always 
be  flying  about  like  this,  dropping  into  strange 
fields?" 

"I'll  be  following  the  county  fair  circuit  later  in 
the  season,"  he  explained  in  as  commonplace  a  voice 
as  he  could  command. 

"A  gypsy  of  the  air!"  she  whispered,  and  looked 
away  for  a  long  time. 

"A  crow  following  the  corn!"  He  attempted  to 
be  jovial,  and  failed. 

"Oh,  take  me  with  you!"  she  cried  suddenly. 

And  how  and  why  and  when,  he  could  not  tell; 
but  he  found  her  in  his  arms. 

"Nonsense!"  he  kept  saying;  and  each  time  he 
said  it  he  kissed  her. 

"Don't  let  him  have  me — don't!  Take  me  any- 
where! Don't  let  him  have  me!"  She  was  sobbing 
violently. 

Seth  looked  at  his  broken  monoplane,  and  won- 
dered what  had  happened  to  his  life. 

"Don't  let  who?" 

"He's  going  to  marry  me  in  two  weeks.  He 
mustn't — he  mustn't!" 

"You're  in  love  with  some  one  else?" 


no  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Yes.    You." 

Seth  Hadley  had  battled  with  all  the  furies  of  the 
air,  but  with  nothing  that  had  so  completely  thrown 
him  from  his  balance.'  He  said  nothing  for  a  long 
time,  and  at  last  he  released  her  from  his  arms  and 
withdrew  to  a  little  distance,  where  he  sat  on  a 
fence-rail  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Of  course,  you've  got  to  marry  him,"  he  said 
finally.  "You  and  I  are  different  kinds  of  birds, 
and  we  don't  flock  on  the  same  tree.  I  happen  to 
know  just  how  far  above  me  you  are.  I  was  chauf- 
feur once  for  an  uncle  of  yours." 

Her  eyes  widened,  but  they  were  still  violet. 

"Already  there's  been  a  lot  too  much  of  these 
heiresses  marrying  chauffeurs — and  I'm  only  a 
fancy  breed  of  chauffeur,  when  you  get  down  to 
brass  tacks.  I'm  saying  it  straight,  my  dear.  I  fly 
higher  and  get  my  name  in  the  papers  oftener;  but 
the  swells  order  me  around  and  tip  me  just  the  way 
they  did  when  I  was  drivin'  your  uncle's  car  down 
Fifth  Avenue.  Maybe  you  think  you  won't  be 
happy  marrying  your  friend  Mr.  Jeffany;  but  in  a 
year  you'll  be  mighty  glad  you're  tied  up  to  a  man 
who  can  talk  your  language  and  can  hire  flocks  of 
harlequins  like  me." 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  touched  her  slender, 
useless  little  hand. 

"It's  too  good  to  think  of — for  me,"  he  went  on 
softly.  "I'm  not  the  sort  that'll  ever  make  anything 
of  himself.  I'll  never  invent  a  flying  dreadnought 


The  Highest  in 


and  sell  it  to  the  Russian  government.  I'll  just 
aviate  for  wages  all  my  days,  and  bust  my  neck 
some  time  looping  the  loop  at  the  Ventura  hog  and 
poultry  show." 

"What's  all  that,  if  we " 

"Love  each  other?  A  lot,  after  we  start  setting 
up  housekeeping.  I'd  like  to  tell  you  how  much 
obliged  I  feel — but  my  feelings  are  no  matter." 

"You've  taught  me  so  many  things,"  she  said. 

"I  was  hired  to  teach  you  to  fly.  When  I  can't 
deliver  the  goods,  I  like  to  return  'em  to  headquar- 
ters. Good-bye." 

The  hired  automobile  approached  down  the  road. 
He  kissed  her,  and  gave  her  the  little  cross  he  had 
always  worn  for  luck. 

He  saw  her  once  again,  a  year  later,  after  she 
was  married  to  Leonard  Jeffany.  He  remembered 
how  she  drew  her  hands  to  her  lips  that  day  when 
he  took  a  header  in  front  of  the  grand-stand. 

And  so  she  had  remembered,  and  had  sent  back 
his  cross.  'As  the  spark  flieth  upward'  .  .  .  her 
spark  had  flown  to-day.  Where? 


IV 

The  air  up  here  was  becoming  prodigiously  cold, 
thin,  and  heady,  and  the  spectacle  offered  to  unsee- 
ing space  was  that  of  a  human  automaton,  strange 
of  shape,  methodical  and  unemotional  as  a  part  of 


112  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

his  machine,  monotonously  executing  each  sweep  of 
the  spiral  with  absolute  accuracy,  banking,  rising  at 
just  the  proper  angle,  and  ever  beating  up,  up,  up. 
No  tragedy  of  life  or  death  or  love  ever  detracted 
the  eye  of  Seth  Hadley  from  the  condition  of  his 
oil-cups,  or  his  ear  from  the  throb  of  the  engine, 
beating  its  regular  tattoo.  But,  to  his  senses,  just 
as  his  biplane  had  leaped  on  an  invisible  surge  to  a 
more  exhilarating,  more  cruelly  chilling  height, 
there  roared  a  sound  more  disconcerting  than  the 
propeller-deafness  which  had  followed  him  from 
earth. 

"Altitude !"  Hadley  shouted  to  himself,  a  silly 
elation  filling  him  as  he  recognised  this  Niagara 
booming  under  his  temples.  "Some  high,  we  are; 
some  high!" 

He  laughed,  and  a  rush  of  freezing  wind  blew  his 
mirth  down  his  throat.  Frost  was  beginning  to  dim 
his  goggles,  but  by  leaning  close  he  could  vaguely 
make  out  the  hand  on  the  open  barograph  lashed  to 
the  stanchion  before  him:  14,800  meters,  he  thought 
it  said. 

"What  a  four-flusher  that  Frenchman  was  to  quit 
at  ten  thousand  feet,"  his  outer  self  repeated,  giddy 
with  the  first  intoxication  of  height.  But  the  inner 
Hadley  was  listening  to  a  voice  as  solemn,  mysteri- 
ous, and  supporting  as  the  airy  depths  that  bore  him 
skyward.  "In  the  last  moment  she  remembered!" 
And  he  risked  his  life  to  lay  his  hand  on  the  Maltese 
cross  pinned  to  his  coat. 


The  Highest  113 


A  great  pillar  of  air  suddenly  shot  his  machine  up- 
ward, straight  as  a  kite  above  a  chimney-blast.  The 
straps  that  confined  him  to  his  seat  flapped  slack, 
and  he  was  jammed  tight  into  his  seat,  so  irresistible 
was  the  upward  motion.  Drunk  with  lightness, 
chilled  to  the  marrow,  he  yet  found  the  machine- 
man  who  controlled  his  flight  mechanically  answer- 
ing to  the  emergency,  warping  cannily,  deferring  to 
the  panting  cylinders,  feeding  oil  to  the  hungry 
thing  which  threatened  to  faint  and  fall  at  the 
slightest  inattention. 

"Who  says  a  biplane  can't  climb  ?"  he  asked  the 
empty  gods  of  space. 

The  very  loneliness  seemed  to  companion  him, 
because  he  was  human  and  could  not  be  absolutely 
alone.  It  took  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps, 
for  Seth  Hadley  to  begin  to  feel  in  his  arms  and  legs 
the  alternate  numbness  and  pain  of  freezing.  His 
hands  were  clutched  like  things  of  stone  upon  the 
controls ;  yet  his  technique,  here  swung  like  a  planet 
in  space,  was  as  faultless  as  it  had  ever  been  two 
hundred  feet  above  a  crowded  aerodrome.  This 
was  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that  Seth  Hadley  had 
no  imagination. 

"Hadley  will  always  be  a  farmer/'  an  expert 
from  the  Aero  Club  had  once  said,  watching  his 
flight.  "He  drives  an  aeroplane  like  a  threshing- 
machine." 

Seth  at  this  moment,  freezing  and  surcharged 
with  ozone,  realised  with  exaggerated  bitterness 


114  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

what  a  plain  one  he  had  always  been.  He  had  seen 
the  pert,  dapper  aviators  in  rival  hangars  sur- 
rounded by  matinee  girls  six  deep.  He  had  even 
heard  them  boast  of  their  complicated  affairs  with 
debutantes  and  grass-widows.  His  camp  had  never 
been  besieged  by  love-sick  maidens,  and  his  mail 
had  seldom  been  burdened  by  lavender  stationery. 
He  had  never  looked  upon  these  things  *as  the  re- 
wards to  be  expected  in  his  trade.  Serious,  steady, 
rnonogamic,  he  had  no  imagination. 

The  propeller  still  screamed  its  maddening  chal- 
lenge to  the  void;  the  engine  still  throbbed  rhyth- 
mically. His  heart  pumped  to  his  temples  a  mad- 
dening pressure  of  blood ;  his  eyes  seemed  popping 
from  their  sockets,  his  lungs  dilating  like  the  gills 
of  a  new-caught  fish.  Again  he  leaned  forward  to 
consult  his  barograph.  No  use  now!  Ice  had 
formed  so  thickly  on  his  goggles  that  the  struts 
were  but  a  blur  before  him ;  and  when  he  raised  his 
glasses  with  one  stiffened  hand,  the  stinging  cold 
struck  him  blind.  Up  again  he  swung  the  elevators. 
Two  uncoordinated  thoughts  were  constantly  beat- 
ing at  his  temples : 

"She  remembered.  .  .  .  You've  got  to  beat  that 
French  machine." 

He  was  pressing  the  elevators  up  for  another 
leap,  when — dizzy  horror ! — the  engine  stopped  cold, 
and  the  craft  plunged  dead  as  a  shot  duck  two, 
three  hundred  feet  off  an  invisible  precipice.  Then 
the  carbureter,  taking  breath  from  the  mighty  dive, 


The  Highest  115 


began  to  work  again,  and  the  engine  once  more 
caught  its  beat.  The  frozen  man  in  the  seat  re- 
covered consciousness,  to  find  himself  righting  the 
planes  and  at  the  same  moment  laughing  prodig- 
iously at  an  Irish  anecdote  Harwood  had  once  re- 
cited— what  was  it  about  Hogan's  four  twins? 
This  time  he  jerked  the  elevators  so  roughly  that 
the  machine  seemed  to  stand  on  her  tail  before 
plunging  like  an  arrow  into  the  unknown  heights. 

What  change  had  suddenly  come  over  Seth  Had- 
ley  in  this  moment  of  action?  His  brain  unaccount- 
ably cleared,  and  at  the  same  instant  the  blinding 
frost  seemed  to  melt  from  his  goggles.  It  was  as  if 
he  were  floating  on  the  surface  of  a  pond — a 
strange,  crystal-clear  pond  whose  waters  breathed 
strength  and  comfort.  He  had  never  felt  this  way 
before — it  must  be  "some  high"  to  give  such  a  sen- 
sation. He  was  just  leaning  forward  to  consult  his 
barograph  when — he  saw  It. 

Far  away  It  seemed,  six  or  eight  miles  by  ordi- 
nary measurements,  and  on  a  level  somewhat  above 
his  eyes.  It  came  to  him  at  first  as  a  curious,  glow- 
ing object  seen  at  the  other  end  of  some  vast  cylin- 
der; then,  for  an  instant,  the  full  glory  of  It  burst 
upon  him,  circled  by  a  soft  aureole  of  sapphire  and 
amethyst. 

"Huh !"  grunted  Seth  Hadley,  and  drove  his  ma- 
chine straight  at  the  apparition. 

It  vanished  an  instant,  and  again  he  got  It. 
Surely  there  was  some  architectural  scheme  to  the 


Il6  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Thing — what  were  those  two  pole-like  objects  of 
effulgent  blue  rising  from  vaguely  square,  rose-col- 
oured walls?  Great  Scott!  Was  there  ice  on  his 
goggles,  or  were  those  flocks  of  things  moving 
about — or 

"Whoa!"  shouted  Hadley  to  his  saner  self. 
"Seth,  the  altitude's  gone  to  your  nut  and  you're 
balmy,  balmy !" 

And,  at  the  instant,  his  engine  skipped  again,  lost 
breath,  stopped  dead,  and  down  like  the  fallen  Luci- 
fer plunged  his  biplane  for  a  sheer  drop  of  eight 
hundred  feet.  The  man  in  the  seat  might  have  been 
a  lay  figure,  for  all  the  effort  he  made  to  control  his 
fall.  Somehow,  in  the  warmer  rush  of  lower  air 
the  mechanic-man  within  him  came  out  of  its  torpor 
sufficiently  to  save  his  life;  but  when  his  man-brain 
began  again  to  think  and  his  human  eyes  to  see,  the 
rich  summer  landscape  of  Long  Island  was  rushing 
toward  him  through  the  dusk.  Half  a  mile  to  the 
east  he  could  see  a  great  fire  blazing,  and  he  realised 
that  they  had  been  throwing  gasolene  on  the  turf  as 
a  signal  to  guide  him  down. 

He  sloped  his  planes  steeply  toward  the  huge  dark 
bulk  of  the  grand-stand  roof.  The  thawing-pains 
now  shooting  through  his  arms  made  it  a  matter 
of  vague  conjecture  with  him  as  to  whether  he 
would  ever  reach  earth  without  losing  control. 
Now  he  could  see  the  thinning  crowd  running 
through  the  twilight  like  night  insects.  He  shut 


The  Highest  117 


off  his  engine.  He  could  hear  them  murmur.  He 
was  down. 

The  scene  that  followed  was  very  vague  to  the 
exhausted  man.  People  seemed  noisy,  and  annoyed 
him  by  flocking  around.  An  official  with  an  electric 
bull's-eye  took  the  sealed  barograph  from  his  back, 
opened  it,  and  beckoned  nervously  to  witnesses. 
Seth  had  no  ambition  to  rise  from  his  seat,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  a  hundred  hands  were  reaching  out  to 
pull  him  away  from  the  machine.  When  they  got 
off  his  helmet,  he  saw  the  face  of  Harwood  looking 
down  on  him  with  a  grin  of  perfect  rapture. 

"Cold,"  was  all  Seth  Hadley  could  say. 

Harwood  gave  him  coffee  out  of  a  patent  bottle, 
and  Harwood  kept  repeating  staccato  phrases  which 
the  aviator's  thickened  senses  seemed  unable  to  as- 
similate. 

Just  as  Harwood,  assisted  by  big  Christophe,  was 
bracing  Seth  under  the  arm-pits  to  lead  him  away, 
two  or  three  military  men  and  a  citizen  in  a  long 
black  coat  seemed  to  hedge  them  in,  which  added 
to  the  irritation  of  the  moment,  to  Seth's  mind. 
What  made  it  worse  was  that  the  frock-coated  one 
seemed  to  be  a  chatty  person  who  insisted  on  shak- 
ing hands  and  making  some  forensic  noises.  When 
this  peculiar  individual  had  withdrawn,  Seth  sud- 
denly found  his  voice. 

"Who's  that  nut?"  he  enquired  of  Harwood. 

"That's  the  President  of  the  United  States,  son/' 
said  the  manager.  "He's  been  congratulating  you." 


nS  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Did  I  make  some  sort  of  a  record?"  asked  Seth 
vaguely. 

"Some  sort  of  a  record!"  bawled  Harwood. 
"Why,  man,  your  barograph  registers  twenty-seven 
thousand  six  hundred  feet — the  highest  any  flying- 
machine  has  ever  gone  in  the  history  of  aviation !" 
Then,  commercial  instinct  triumphing  over  hero- 
worship  :  "That's  a  great  little  engine,  the  Zwilk !" 

"I  want  to  go  to  bed/'  was  Seth's  comment. 

"You  see/'  Harwood  confided  to  a  friend,  "he's 
the  ideal  type  of  flier — perfect  nerve,  no  imagina- 
tion." 


They  had  put  Hadley  to  bed  in  the  bridal 
suite  of  a  Long  Island  hotel.  Nothing  was 
too  good  for  him  now,  and  Harwood  had 
called  in  a  doctor,  who  prescribed  a  week  of  rest 
on  a  soft  mattress.  He  had  a  slightly  frost-bitten 
foot;  also,  the  severe  pains  in  his  head  never  left 
him.  Harwood,  in  an  adjoining  room,  received  re- 
porters and  aero  enthusiasts  and  managers  with  of- 
fers for  exhibitions.  As  agent  for  the  Zwilk  rotary 
motor  he  saw  himself  already  established  in  the 
good  graces  of  two  or  three  governments,  and  upon 
all  comers  he  beamed  like  the  father  of  twins. 

All  this  time  Seth  Hadley  had  very  little  to  say. 
Being  a  man  of  action  and  not  of  ideas,  he  permit- 
ted his  manager  to  furnish  the  interviews  for  the 


The  Highest  119 


press.  His  most  important  function  seemed  to  be 
to  take  something  out  of  a  glass  every  half  hour 
while  he  was  awake — which  wasn't  long,  for  to- 
ward midnight  he  set  up  a  patient  snore,  methodical 
as  an  endurance  flight,  a  droning  expression  of  his 
unimaginative  self. 

Next  morning  at  ten  he  awoke,  and  Charley  Roy, 
a  trick  flier  he  had  met  in  the  Western  circuit,  called 
with  the  newspapers. 

"Say,"  said  Charley,  "you're  such  a  hit  you're 
playing  rival  to  the  war  on  the  front  page.  Next 
thing,  you'll  have  to  hire  a  secretary  to  answer  the 
mash  notes." 

Seth  grunted. 

"Funny,"  Roy  went  on.  "With  all  your  success, 
you  never  seem  to  draw  'em.  Girls  usually  love  an 
aviator  like  a  soda  fountain ;  but  nobody  ever  saw  a 
skirt  fussing  around  your  hangar." 

"Read  the  papers,"  commanded  Hadley. 

Charley's  voice  was  just  buzzing  into  the  head- 
line, "American  Aviator  in  American  Machine 
Wins  World's  Altitude  Record,"  when  Hadley  lan- 
guidly inquired :  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  flier  get- 
ting up  so  high  he  sort  of  saw — what  d'you  call  'em 
— mansions  in  the  sky?  Queer,  batty  palaces,  and 
gates  twice  as  high  as  the  Woolworth  Tower,  all 
growing  right  out  of  nowhere  ten  miles  in  the 
air?" 

"Did  you?"  asked  Charley,  looking  closely  at  his 
friend. 


I2O  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

.    Seth  nodded. 

"Did  you  tell  the  doc  about  it?" 

Seth  shook  his  head. 

"The  doc/'  Charley  resumed,  "always  gives  it  a 
fancy  name  and  explains  that  the  carbureter  in 
your  nut  gets  out  of  whack  after  a  certain  height. 
But  some  o'  the  professionals  call  it  'high-willies/ 
Those  mansions  ain't  in  the  sky;  they're  in  your 
own  dome.  F'r  instance,  Gorlitz,  the  Dutch  flier, 
once  came  down  from  ten  thousand  swearin'  the 
sky  was  full  of  horses  and " 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  Harwood  entered 
as  deferentially  as  a  gold-stick  approaching  the 
royal  couch. 

"J.  W.  Winterbloom,  of  Winterbloom,  Wagg  & 
Winterbloom,  is  here  and  wants  to  talk  business." 
His  voice  was  dreadfully  impressive. 

"Who's  all  that  name?"  inquired  Seth  dully,  as 
Charley  withdrew  at  a  withering  glance  from  Har- 
wood. 

"Winterbloom?  You  must  know.  He's  trustee 
for  the  estate  of  the  late  Ivan  W.  Butler." 

The  last-mentioned  name  immediately  established 
Mr.  Winterbloom  in  Seth's  mind.  Ivan  W.  Butler, 
that  selfish,  cunning  little  genius  who,  after  estab- 
lishing himself  as  the  absolute  czar  of  American 
finance,  had  succumbed  to  dyspepsia  at  the  age  of 
forty-nine.  In  a  mental  flash  Hadley  remembered 
Butler  in  the  flesh — nobody  who  had  once  seen  him 
ever  forgot — as  he  had  glimpsed  him  a  year  before 


The  Highest  121 


at  the  Chicago  meet.  A  big  blue  automobile  had 
driven  to  within  a  few  yards  of  where  Seth's  ma- 
chine had  come  down  for  repairs. 

"Ivan  W.  Butler !"  some  one  had  whispered  to 
Seth. 

Only  the  top  of  a  grey  fedora  hat  had  at  first 
been  visible  in  the  tonneau.  Suddenly  the  little, 
sickly  body  under  the  hat  had  sprung  up,  as  ner- 
vously active  as  a  jack-in-the-box. 

The  face  that  Seth  had  seen  was  rather  terrifying 
— big  round  forehead,  big  round  spectacles,  enor- 
mous turned-up  moustache,  and  glittering,  merciless 
eyes. 

"Drive  on!"  a  voice  like  the  rasping  of  a  saw 
had  said. 

"But  it's  against  the  rules,  sir!"  the  frightened 
chauffeur  had  objected. 

"I'm  giving  the  orders!"  that  unpleasant,  domi- 
nating voice  had  squeaked. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Ivan  W.  Butler's  career 
of  conquest:  "Drive  on!"  and  "I'm  giving  the  or- 
ders!" 

But  the  sudden,  compelling  manner  in  which  the 
little  man  had  popped  up  in  the  automobile  was 
the  picture  that  stuck  in  Seth's  mind. 

"What  does  the  estate  of  Ivan  W.  Butler  want  of 
me?"  asked  the  aviator,  turning  on  his  pillow  and 
facing  his  manager. 

"It's  a  funny  proposition — he  wants  to  explain." 
Harwood's  fat  face  was  eager.  He  leaned  over 


122  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

the  bed  and  clutched  Seth  by  one  of  his  sore  bi- 
ceps. "There's  a  raft  of  money  in  it  for  us — if  we 
put  it  over/' 

J.  W.  Winterbloom,  ceremonious,  bald,  rather 
loudly  dressed,  was  shown  in. 

"I  wish  to  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Hadley,"  he 
said,  confidently  taking  a  limp  hand.  "Your  re- 
markable record !" 

"Thanks,"  replied  Seth  wearily. 

"I  am  here  on  rather  pleasant  business — I  think. 
After  reading  the  morning's  papers  I  came  over  im- 
mediately, because  I  felt  sure  you  were  the  man 
mentioned " 

"Mentioned  ?" 

"In  Mr.  Butler's  will." 

Seth  forgot  his  aches  and  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Am  I  seeing  things  again?"  he  asked  himself 
blankly. 

"When  the  original  clocument  was  prepared  for 
publication,  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Butler's  death,  cer- 
tain clauses  were  suppressed  in  compliance  with 
my  client's  wish.  Ivan  W.  Butler  was,  as  you  may 
know," — here  the  lawyer  tilted  his  eye-glasses 
on  his  forefinger, — "as  a  public  mind,  infallible  as  a 
perfect  machine;  but  in  private  matters,  religion 
and  certain  intimate  affairs,  he  had  views  of  his 
own — views  of  his  own." 

"And  where  do  I  come  in?"  The  aviator  was 
now  swinging  his  pajamaed  legs  over  the  side  of  the 
bed. 


The  Highest  123 


"I'll  read  you  the  clause,"  said  Mr.  Winterbloom, 
adjusting  his  glasses  on  his  long  white  nose.  He 
drew  a  folded  sheet  from  his  pocket.  "This  is  taken 
from  the  will — er — "  He  unfolded  the  document 
and  read: 

"  'Ninth — I  furthermore  desire  that  my  mortal 
body  shall  be  cremated,  and  the  ashes  placed  in  the 
bronze  box  now  in  the  care  of  Mr.  Horatio  Tighe. 
I  do  not  wish  these  ashes  to  be  placed  in  a  colum- 
barium, as  is  customary.  It  is  my  theory  that  our 
dust,  after  mortal  death,  should  be  returned,  as 
near  as  possible,  to  the  planetary  matter  whence 
it  came.  Therefore  it  is  my  wish  that  disposal  of 
my  ashes  shall  be  made  as  follows : 

"  'That  the  casket  containing  said  ashes  shall  be 
delivered  to  the  aviator  (in  America  or  abroad) 
who  shall  have  attained  to  the  highest  altitude  dur- 
ing a  period  expiring  three  months  after  my  death. 
That  the  aviator  so  qualified  shall  place  said  ashes 
in  the  same  type  of  machine  with  which  he  has  made 
his  record,  and  shall  fly  to  the  highest  altitude  pos- 
sible within  his  abilities;  and  that,  when  such  a 
height  shall  have  been  attained,  said  aviator  shall,  by 
means  of  releasing  a  spring  in  the  casket,  permit 
my  ashes  to  be  distributed  upon  the  planetary  winds, 
which  shall  blow  my  mortal  self  to  the  true  oblivion 
to  which  mortal  matter  is  destined,  or  to  do  as  di- 
rected  ' " 

"To  do  as  directed?"  repeated  Seth,  who  had 
been  giving  minute  attention. 


124  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Mr.  Butler  apparently  had  something  else  to 
say,"  the  lawyer  explained,  "but  he  must  have 
changed  his  mind,  as  the  clause  breaks  off  here." 

"Um !"  said  Harwood,  the  business  man.  "There 
was  some  mention  of — er — compensation?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that"  Mr.  Winterbloom  turned 
over  a  page.  "Under  the  bequests  we  find  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"  'To  the  aviator  delivering  goods  per  instruc- 
tions, twenty  thousand  dollars/  That  sum  has  been 
set  aside." 

Seth  Hadley  fell  back  on  his  pillows  and  laughed 
noisily. 

"Twenty  thousand  to  dump  his  ashes!"  roared 
Seth.  "The  old  goat!" 

"Hush!"  said  Winterbloom  in  a  shocked  tone, 
as  if  his  expensive  client  were  listening  to  the  blas- 
phemy. 

"I'm  not  clamouring  for  the  job,"  replied  the  boy 
sullenly. 

"It's  a  gilt-edged  order,"  urged  Harwood. 

'"'For  you,  yes.  I  bust  my  neck  and  you  get  ten 
thousand  of  it." 

"But  think  of  the  damage  to  the  machine,"  pro- 
tested the  commercial  Harwood. 

"I'm  not  in  any  undertaking  business,"  grunted 
the  aviator. 

"Very  well!"  Mr.  Winterbloom's  voice  came 
smooth  and  final  as  he  folded  up  the  papers.  "The 


The  Highest  125 


next  best  record  up  to  date  was  made  by  a  French- 
man at  Buc.  We  shall  be  obliged " 

"Just  a  minute!  Just  a  minute !"  whined  Har- 
wood.  "He's  just  like  a  child." 

Then,  crossing  over  to  the  bed  and  leaning  close, 
"Seth,"  he  whispered,  "are  you  going  to  back  out 
now — like  a  cheap  skate?" 

Seth  Hadley  rolled  over  and  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall.  The  same  dull,  abstracted  look  he  had 
worn  since  the  day  before  returned  to  his  eyes. 

"I'll  do  it  this  afternoon/'  he  said  suddenly,  out 
of  the  silence. 

"But  you're  a  sick  man.  You're  crazy.  You 
can't  make  it  so  soon,"  Harwood  fumed,  fairly 
wringing  his  hands. 

"I  said  this  afternoon,"  replied  Seth  sullenly,  sit- 
ting up.  "Where  do  you  want  this  funeral  to  start 
from?" 

"It's  a  little  soon,  but  it  can  be  arranged,"  mused 
Mr.  Winterbloom.  "It  must  be  conducted  with  all 
possible  privacy.  There's  a  race-track  on  the  Butler 
estate  at  Huntington." 

"I've  flown  across  it  lots  of  times,"  Seth  agreed, 
animation  returning.  "I'll  fly  my  machine  over 
there  at  one  o'clock.  Have  the  procession  and  the 
ash-can " 

"I  beg  pardon  ?"  said  Mr.  Winterbloom  coldly. 

"Oh,  whatever  you  call  it.  Have  it  ready  by 
three;  no  later." 


126  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"But  you're  in  no  condition,"  Harwood  put  in 
his  managerial  oar. 

"Who's  running  this  funeral?"  snapped  Seth. 

"You'll  promise  to  take  the — the  remains  to  the 
highest  altitude  possible  ?"  Mr.  Winterbloom  per- 
sisted, picking  up  his  hat. 

"I've  never  disappointed  a  passenger  yet,"  replied 
the  aviator;  and  he  closed  the  interview  by  sinking 
listlessly  back  on  his  pillows. 


VI 

Big  Christophe  and  little  Schmitt  were  there  to 
groom  the  pampered  bird  as  she  seemed  to  stand  tip- 
toe on  the  greensward  that  centred  the  Butler  race- 
course. Seth  Hadley,  in  a  bitter  mood,  had  ordered 
the  tank  drained,  suspecting  inferior  gasolene,  and 
fresh  cans  had  been  brought  fifteen  miles  by  auto- 
mobile. Now  he  stood  under  the  hot  September 
sun,  padded  and  helmeted  like  a  deep-sea  diver.  The 
cruel  heat  added  to  his  chronic  depression,  and 
sweat  rilled  from  the  portion  of  his  face  that  was 
visible. 

"Butler  won't  be  the  only  cremated  corpse,  if 
they  don't  hurry  up,"  he  growled  to  his  manager. 
"What  are  they  giving  him,  a  song  service?" 

"Something  like  that,  over  in  the  chapel,"  Har- 
wood explained,  pointing  a  wrench  across  the  lawny 
acres,  whence  issued  an  organ  peal  and  hymning 


The  Highest  127 


voices.     Seth  was  apparently  bored  and  impatient. 

"Here  they  come !" 

Through  the  poplars  flanking  the  small  Gothic 
structure  figures  could  be  seen  approaching,  black- 
veiled,  frock-coated,  a  straggling  procession.  On 
closer  view,  Hadley  recognised  the  lawyer  Winter- 
bloom  bearing  something  oblong  and  brassy  like  a 
wood-box.  An  especially  veiled  woman  walked  at 
his  side.  The  concourse  moved  at  a  brisk,  business- 
like gait,  Seth  was  relieved  to  note,  and  in  another 
minute  they  were  grouped  around  the  machine,  the 
women  bowed,  men  hat  in  hand. 

The  aviator's  mind  was  mainly  centred  on  the 
business  at  hand,  and  he  pointed  to  the  box,  which 
was  decorated  with  angels  in  high  relief. 

"How  d'you  expect  me  to  open  that  thing?"  was 
his  practical  inquiry. 

"Hush !"  hissed  Mr.  Winterbloom,  whose  princi- 
pal business  seemed  to  consist  in  saving  the  feelings 
of  the  Butler  family. 

A  tall  gentleman  with  a  beard  came  forth  and 
opened  a  book  bound  in  limp  leather.  He  began 
to  read  the  burial  service.  The  workmen  uncov- 
ered, Seth  unstrapped  his  helmet,  and  the  orthodox 
Christophe  knelt  on  the  grass  beyond  the  biplane. 
During  the  droning  responses  Seth's  practical  mind 
was  set  upon  the  details  of  the  flight.  He  twisted 
his  eyes  to  the  brass  box,  and  noted  a  long  string 
fastened  to  the  button  on  top.  That  fool  casket 
would  have  to  be  lashed  securely  to  the  lower  plane, 


128  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

he  thought,  and  the  string  must  be  tied  to  a  stan- 
chion easily  within  reach.  The  widow  wept. 

Suddenly  the  preacher's  voice  boomed  out  of  the 
droning  with  a  phrase  that  struck  the  aviator's  mind 
like  fire :  "Man  is  born  unto  trouble,  as  the  sparks 
fly  upward."  The  same  thought  that  had  borne 
Seth  Hadley  to  the  altitudes  when  she  died !  Up- 
ward with  its  troubles  would  go  the  ashes  of  this 
big  little  peevish  genius,  and  upward  the  living  body 
of  Seth  Hadley  with  its  troubles.  What  tribunal 
awaited  them  up  there,  these  sparks  whose  every 
instinct  bade  them  spurn  the  earth  in  the  hour  of 
extremity  ? 

The  ceremony  ceased,  and  somebody  came  for- 
ward with  flowers. 

"You've  got  to  strap  that  thing  tighter'n  that," 
said  Hadley  coldly  to  the  lawyer  and  Christophe, 
who  were  already  attaching  the  box  to  the  lower 
plane.  "And  just  how  am  I  to  dump  the  ashes 
when  I  get  there  ?" 

"Pull  the  cord  on  the  button,"  Winterbloom  in- 
structed softly.  "There's  an  urn  inside  attached 
to  a  spring.  The  spring  will  release  the  contents." 

The  widow  gave  some  broken  instructions  to  a 
man  with  an  armful  of  wreaths:  Schmitt  had  tied 
the  cord  to  the  strut  near  the  right  control,  and  was 
now  adjusting  the  carbureter  needle.  Christophe 
began  to  grunt  and  struggle  with  the  propeller,  and 
just  before  the  engine  coughed  and  hiccuped  for 
its  first  turn,  some  one  tossed  a  wreath  of  flowers 


The  Highest  129 


over  the  casket.     Hadley  kicked  it  savagely  away. 

"Want  to  foul  the  propeller?"  he  shouted,  as  the 
great  fan  began  its  awful  whir,  drowning  the  mur- 
mur of  outraged  mourners. 

The  machine  shot  forward,  tiptoed,  lifted,  and  at 
once  began  circling  in  long,  eye-filling  spirals  to- 
ward the  heights. 

VII 

"Man  is  born  unto  trouble,  as  the  sparks  fly  up- 
ward." 

A  thunder-storm  was  brewing  over  Long  Island, 
yellow,  silent,  terrific.  All  the  air  brooded  move- 
less, and,  though  the  biplane  seemed  to  rise  in  a 
stagnant  pond,  Seth  Hadley,  reliable  flier,  had  never 
accepted  narrower  risks;  for  above  the  harsh  pro- 
peller song  the  shout  of  thunder  could  be  heard, 
and  down  from  the  black  canopy  overhanging  the 
sea  smudgy  streamers  hung  like  tatters  from  a 
mourning-veil. 

"It  must  be  hell  up  there,"  said  the  aviator  para- 
doxically. Already  a  silver-grey  of  rain  began  to 
obscure  the  sward  below,  and  dimly,  receding  to 
toy-size,  he  could  see  the  flock  of  black  umbrellas 
under  which,  apparently,  the  funeral  party  had  van- 
ished. Round  and  round  milled  the  biplane,  up  and 
up.  A  thousand  feet,  earth  vanished  in  the  mist, 
clouds  fleeced  softly  by,  rain  fell  sparsely,  and  the 
great,  milky  calm  seemed  to  hold  him  in  its  clutch, 


130  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

waiting,  waiting.  It  was  maddening,  this  serenity, 
and  he  longed  impatiently  for  something  to  come 
and  shake  him  into  action.  It  came. 

Blindingly  the  whole  grey  void  lit  and  bellowed 
as  with  the  force  of  some  appalling  explosion.  In- 
visible hands  snatched  the  frail  machine,  dashed  it 
down  on  one  wing,  turned  it  up  on  another,  pitched 
it,  righted  it;  then,  inexplicably  from  beneath,  a 
great  pillar  of  air  lifted  the  planes  smoothly  up- 
ward one,  two  thousand  feet,  much  as  a  hydraulic 
shaft  lifts  an  elevator. 

"Going  up !"  said  Seth  sardonically  as  the  air-pil- 
lar suddenly  deserted  them,  pitching  the  aeroplane 
into  another  stratum  of  calm. 

Mr.  Butler's  casket  still  reposed  in  the  greatest 
dignity  at  the  aviators  feet,  and,  to  his  mind,  alone 
here  in  space  with  the  thing,  the  brass  box  seemed 
to  express  all  the  dominant  egotism  of  the  late 
lamented. 

"Sit  tight,  Mr.  Butler/'  remarked  Seth,  giving 
his  elevators  a  reckless  shove  skyward.  "This  is  a 
grand  little  day  for  a  record,  and  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  we'd  let  you  off  at  the  Pearly  Gate  yet.  And 
no  extra  charge." 

They  were  now  circling  far  above  the  storm,  ris- 
ing on  enormous  leaps  into  a  great  drift  of  wind 
which  seemed  steadily  determined  to  blow  the  in- 
vader somewhere.  Seaward  probably,  Seth  re- 
flected; but,  vaguely,  he  didn't  care.  The  air  was 
again  becoming  thin  and  cold,  and  once  more  he 


The  Highest  131 


breathed  intoxication  through  his  nostrils.  He  was 
inspired  to  but  one  insane  ambition — to  deliver  his 
passenger,  as  per  contract,  to  the  highest  possible 
altitude. 

Steadily  he  milled  upward,  bank  and  rise,  bank 
and  rise,  precise,  mathematical.  The  engine,  so  far, 
had  worked  steadily,  like  a  drum  in  continuous  tat- 
too. Yet  a  whim  was  tickling  his  ear  to  turn  the 
machine  on  its  tail  and  take  the  height  at  one  grand 
leap. 

"Well,  Ivan  W. !"  he  chuckled,  addressing  the 
companionable  casket.  "If  the  old  Zwilk  don't 
sneeze,  we'll  dump  you  right  on  top  of  one  of  those 
— what  d'you  call  'em?  'Planetary  winds' — ouch! 
that  sounds  cold." 

The  box  merely  rested  there,  brassy,  hard,  sym- 
bolic of  the  little  man  who  never  wasted  orders  but 
invariably  stood  pat  until  his  wishes  were  carried 
out  to  the  letter.  Seth  Hadley,  lungs  filling  with 
narcotic  air,  giggled  vacantly  to  think  how  much 
he  felt  like  that  unfortunate  chauffeur  he  had  seen 
in  Chicago,  withering  under  Butler's  merciless  com- 
mand. "Drive  on !  I'm  giving  the  orders." 

"Ivan  the  Czar  they  called  him — will  of  his  own," 
chanted  Seth,  straightening  his  machine  after  a 
particularly  dangerous  bank.  "Where  was  it  he 
wanted  to  be  spilled?  Planetary  winds.  I'm  with 
you,  gov'nor!" 

The  high,  heady,  blank,  lonesome  cold  announced 
as  plainly  as  any  barograph  that  they  were  ap- 


132  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

preaching  the  two-mile  level.  The  altitude  seemed 
to  go  to  Seth's  head  more  swiftly  than  it  had  on  the 
previous  flight.  The  behaviour  of  the  engine  was 
still  flawless,  and  the  perfect  smoothness  of  the 
arctic  wind  that  blew  against  him  made  the  process 
of  climbing  merely  a  matter  of  lifting  the  elevators. 

"A  hundred  miles  an  hour,"  reflected  Seth's  prac- 
tical side,  testing  the  wind.  "And  where  to?" 

Then  he  continued,  addressing  the  casket  in  a 
free  and  jaunty  manner :  "It  makes  no  matter  what 
happens  to  the  driver,  old  top,  so  long  as  he  lands 
you  at  the  proper  number.  You  always  were  a  hard 
boss/'  he  amended  drunkenly.  "Drove  your  work- 
men to  death,  and  spent  a  million  dollars  fighting 
compensation  laws  in  Congress.  I  bet  you're  lying 
in  that  box  laughing  yourself  to  death  because 
you're  going  to  slaughter  another  before  you  quit." 

A  frightful  gust  of  air  shook  him  like  a  straw 
in  Niagara,  and  in  the  scramble  to  right  himself 
Seth  accidentally  kicked  the  casket. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  apologised.  His  lungs  were 
bursting  with  the  effort  of  breath.  How  much 
longer  could  he  keep  this  up?  The  familiar  ice- 
glaze  had  formed  on  his  glasses  some  time  before, 
and  his  engine  was  just  beginning  to  show  signs  of 
exhaustion.  Should  he  pull  the  cord  now  and  re- 
lease the  magnate's  dust  as  per  contract  ?  No.  Bet- 
ter try  another  plunge  up,  as  there  was  still  life  in 
the  old  machine.  Hadn't  he  promised  to  go  up  as 
far  as  possible?  And  had  Deliver-the-Goods  Had- 


The  Highest  133 


ley  ever  broken  a  contract  with  man  or  woman? 
If  he  didn't  go  crazy,  or  freeze  stiff,  or  die  of  fa- 
tigue in  this  awful  air 

He  pulled  up  the  elevators  at  an  angle  beyond  any 
sense  or  science,  and  the  machine,  failing  to  tail 
over,  by  some  miracle  took  the  rise  in  a  series  of 
mighty  jerks,  like  a  strong  horse  panting  up  a  grade. 
At  last  the  height  was  gained.  Again  the  frost 
seemed  to  fade  from  Seth's  goggles,  and  he  could 
see  around  him.  The  engine  stopped  dead.  Yet 
the  machine  was  riding  as  level  on  mid-air  as  a 
plate  on  a  table. 

And  he  saw  It  again. 

Opalescent  glory  of  light,  warmth  that  was  better 
than  comfort,  heights  of  colour,  azure  pillars  sup- 
porting the  zenith  and  rising  from  shimmering 
walls  of  rose,  silvery  domes  beyond,  a  music  that 
stole  to  his  senses,  not  through  his  ears,  but  came  to 
him  somehow  because  it  was  music.  Those  same 
pillars 

Being  a  practical  aviator,  Seth  turned  his  eyes 
from  the  unknown  and  consulted  his  barograph. 
Twenty-eight  thousand  feet.  In  the  glassy  clear- 
ness he  could  see,  in  exaggerated  outline  at  his  feet, 
Mr.  Butler's  casket  with  its  queer  bas-relief. 

"I  guess  this'll  suit,  gov'nor!"  he  said,  calmly 
reaching  out  and  pulling  the  string  which  opened 
the  lid  of  the  box  with  a  violent  jerk.  .  .  . 

And  Ivan  W.  Butler  himself,  wearing  his  grey 
, business  suit,  near-sighted  spectacles,  and  fedora 


134  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

hat,  sat  peevishly  up  in  the  casket  and  turned  a 
cold  gaze  upon  the  aviator. 

"Drive  on !"  he  commanded  in  his  hard,  metallic 
tones,  pointing  to  the  azure  pillars  and  rosy  walls 
ahead. 

Seth,  even  in  his  astonishment,  could  not  over- 
look the  fact  that  Mr.  Butler  was  employing  the 
same  voice  and  attitude  he  had  used  to  the  chauffeur 
in  Chicago. 

"What  for?"  was  Seth's  dazed  reply.  He  had 
dropped  his  hands  from  the  controls,  and  was  not 
.surprised  that  the  machine  seemed  to  stand  still  in 
space.  The  engine,  in  fact,  had  stopped.  "What 
for?"  Seth  repeated  rebelliously. 

"I'm  giving  the  orders !"  snapped  Mr.  Butler,  fix- 
ing him  with  his  cruel,  hypnotic  eyes. 

"Now,  look  here,"  began  Seth  rather  feebly — for, 
under  that  gaze,  he  found  himself  weakening  as 
many  another  stronger  man  had  done.  The  engine 
started  again,  as  if  in  obedience  to  the  command  of 
the  great  little  man  who  had  never  been  refused 
anything.  The  propeller  set  up  an  exaggerated 
whir,  and  the  biplane  rushed  forward,  with  a  mighty 
sweep,  straight  toward  that  glory  of  light  and  form 
and  colour.  Mr.  Butler  dragged  his  frail  figure  out 
of  the  box  and  leaned  recklessly  forward  against 
a  stanchion.  There  was  a  queer,  triumphant  smile 
under  his  great  moustache.  So  close  were  they  now 
that  he  could  behold  the  wonder  of  it — the  temple- 
domes  of  pale  coral  and  living  fire;  and  ahead, 


The  Highest  135 


straight  across  the  path  of  his  flying-machine,  those 
two  great  shafts  of  blue,  so  vast,  so  high,  their  tops 
seemed  to  fade,  not  in  clouds,  but  in  the  spreading 
ether.  Closer  and  closer.  Now  a  new  wonder  ap- 
peared ;  for  between  those  great  blue  pillars  count- 
less processions  of  little  yellow  lights  seemed  to  be 
pouring  in,  without  ceasing,  much  as  bubbles  are 
sucked  into  river  caverns. 

"What  are  those?"  asked  Seth  Hadley,  pointing 
to  the  swarms  of  little  lights. 

"Souls,"  replied  Mr.  Butler  in  a  dry  voice,  much 
as  he  might  have  said :  "Potatoes." 

"I  don't  go  any  further,"  announced  Seth,  sud- 
denly turning  his  machine,  because  he  was  overcome 
with  a  vast  fear. 

"Stop!  Drive  in!"  almost  shrieked  Mr.  Butler, 
for  the  first  time  showing  emotion.  "We  are  here 
— what  does  the  Book  say?  'And  he  carried  me 
away  in  the  spirit  to  a  great  and  high  mountain, 
and  showed  me  that  great  city/  Go  in,  I  say!" 

"I  refuse,"  replied  Seth.  "And  we  might  as  well 
come  to  an  understanding  right  here.  This  sort 
of  thing  wasn't  on  the  papers,  at  all.  I  was  hired 
by  your  estate  to  take  you  up  and  dump  you  on  the 
'planetary  winds,'  I  think  they  call  'em." 

"Don't !  Don't !"  pleaded  the  little  man ;  for  Seth 
had  already  given  him  a  brisk  shove  toward  the 
edge  of  the  plane. 

"I  was  told  to  dump  your  ashes,"  growled  the 
aviator. 


136  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Well,  I'm  not  ashes;  you've  got  sense  enough  to 
see  that,  haven't  you?"  He  again  employed  the 
rasping  tone  with  which  he  had  bullied  boards  of 
directors  all  his  life. 

"There's  nothing  in  the  agreement  about  taking 
you  in — there."  Seth  firmly  held  his  point. 

"Perhaps  it's  a  matter  of  payment,"  said  Butler 
persuasively.  And,  to  the  other's  amazement,  he 
whipped  a  check-book  and  a  fountain-pen  from  his 
pocket.  He  uncapped  the  pen  and  began  to  write. 
"What  figure  shall  I  put  down — five  hundred  thou- 
sand— a  million " 

"Chuck  that!"  Seth  struck  the  check-book  so  vi- 
ciously that  it  fell  fluttering  down,  down  into  the 
well  of  space.  "Bribery  doesn't  go  here,"  he  ex- 
plained curtly. 

"Well,  can  I  appeal  to  your  sense  of  honour?" 

"My  which?" 

"Sense  of  honour — square  dealing?  Are  you  the 
sort  that  would  back  out  of  a  contract  in  the  elev- 
enth hour?  We  have  an  evil  name  for  that  sort 
in  Wall  Street." 

"I  never  threw  down  a  man — or  a  woman," 
replied  Seth  solemnly.  And  unconsciously  his  hand 
went  up  to  the  little  Maltese  cross  on  his  breast. 

"Good !  That's  my  point.  If  you  remember  the 
wording  of  my  will,  you  were  ordered  either  to  re- 
lease my  ashes  to  the  planetary  winds  or  do  as  di- 
rected. Now  I'm  directing  you.  Drive  in." 

The  spot  to  which  the  financier  was  pointing  was 


The  Highest  137 


that  vast  and  radiant  void  into  which  the  souls  were 
passing,  passing  between  the  mighty  pillars.  Seth 
pointed  his  planes  straight  for  the  spot.  The  spec- 
tacles of  the  little  dominant  capitalist  seemed  to 
hold  him  to  his  task,  and  they  charged  through 
space  at  meteor  speed. 

Those  irradiant  pillars  confronted  them  now  at 
a  height  so  dizzy  that  they  seemed  to  touch  over- 
head. Those  flickering  flames,  unchanging  streams 
of  them,  surrounded  them  now,  and  all  together 
they  bore  forward  toward  the  majesty  beyond  the 
gate. 

Then  softly,  mysteriously,  the  biplane  stopped, 
not  with  a  jar  or  dizzy  failure  which  means  a  down- 
ward plunge,  but  gradually,  as  a  boat  stops  among 
rushes  in  a  shallow  pond. 

Suddenly,  from  out  of  the  mystery,  a  Voice  spoke 
— a  tone  that  had  no  loudness,  yet  seemed  to  shake 
the  firmament : 

"Who  comes?" 

"You  answer/'  said  Butler,  plucking  Seth  by  the 
sleeve. 

"This  is  Mr.  Butler— I.  W.  Butler"— Seth  fal- 
tered. 

"He  cannot  enter,"  said  the  great,  gentle,  inex- 
orable Voice. 

"Now,  I  told  you,"  said  Seth  to  his  passenger. 
"This  business  isn't  straight,  and  we  might  as  well 
go  back." 

"No!    No!"    The  rich  man's  voice  was  terrible 


138  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

to  hear.  "Anything  but  that!  My  soul's  salvation 
— I — "  Then,  clutching  the  aviator  more  firmly 
by  the  arm,  "ask  him  why  I  can  not  enter/' 

"Why  can't  Mr.  Butler  enter?"  Seth  inquired; 
and,  to  his  astonishment,  the  great  Voice  answered 
simply : 

"The  unworthy  shall  not  enter.     It  is  the  law." 

"He  says  it's  the  law,"  Seth  explained. 

"The  law!"  Butler  sneered  savagely.  "I've  got- 
ten round  that  for  forty  years.  There  must  be  some 
way — some  way!" 

"You've  taken  all  the  trouble  getting  here  for 
nothing,"  Seth  explained.  "You've  met  your  match, 
old  man.  All  your  life  you've  been  in  the  habit 
of  getting  things  by  force — Congress,  Supreme 
Court,  churches.  But  that  don't  go  here.  I  see 
now,  this  whole  expedition  was  another  one  of  your 
foxy  schemes  to  get  across " 

"Who  speaks  ?"  said  the  Voice. 

"Me?  I'm  only  the  driver.  My  name's  Hadley 
—Seth  Hadley." 

"Enter  thou  alone,"  commanded  the  Voice. 

"Mr.  Butler,"  said  Seth,  politely  addressing  the 
elderly  man  beside  him,  "I  seem  to  be  wanted " 

"You  can't  go  in  without  me!"  snapped  Butler. 
"You've  got  to  stick  by  the  contract." 

"That's  you  all  over  again,"  the  aviator  laughed. 
"Ruin  another  man's  chance  of  salvation  to  work 
your  own." 


The  Highest  139 


"Would  you  enter  alone — pitch  me  out,  desert 
me?"  Butler  was  weeping  piteously. 

Hadley  sat  a  moment  and  scratched  his  helmet. 

"Enter  thou  alone!"  repeated  the  Voice. 

"I — I  couldn't  exactly  do  that."  He  addressed 
the  Gate  apologetically.  Immediately  the  flying-ma- 
chine, the  engine  still  stopped,  turned  as  if  guided 
by  invisible  hands. 

"Don't  go!  Don't  go!"  shrieked  Mr.  Butler, 
wringing  his  thin  fingers.  "Hadley,  don't  you  see 
what  it  means  to  me  to  enter  there?  Don't  you 
want  to  go  in?  Isn't  there  some  one  you've  loved, 
you've  lost,  that  you  want  to,  you've  got  to  speak 
to " 

"How  did  you  know  it?"  Seth  asked  huskily. 

"Then  don't  give  up,  this  way.  See,  your  en- 
gine's starting  again.  Rush  the  gates;  shove 
through.  There's  nothing  human  or  divine  can 
stop  one  of  these  things " 

His  voice  was  lost  in  the  whir  of  the  reviving  pro- 
peller. With  a  new,  desperate  hope  in  his  heart,  the 
aviator  turned  his  blasphemous  planes  toward  the 
forbidden  city,  and  charged  head  on,  much  as  a 
bird  flies  in  the  night  at  a  window  beyond  which 
light  shines. 

VIII 

A  coastwise  steamer,  plying  between  New  York 
and  the  Gulf,  picked  up  the  clue  for  which  the  press 


140  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

of  America  and  a  business  inventor  named  Har- 
wood  had  been  searching  feverishly.  In  detail,  the 
evidence  consisted  of  a  tangle  of  canvas  and  piano- 
wire,  in  the  midst  of  which  floated  an  aviator's  hel- 
met in  remarkably  good  condition. 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  DEEGAN  FOLK? 

THE  question  came  from  across  the  big-knife- 
scarred  oak  table  where  sat  eighteen  middle- 
aging  men,  monogramed  steins  before  them 
from  which  they  had  drunk  every  possible  toast  to 
Sigma  Sigma  and  the  Inner  Circle,  Class  of  '97; 
and  at  the  query  the  Eighteen,  suddenly  silent  after 
the  tumult  and  the  shouting  of  reunion,  turned  in- 
voluntary glances  toward  the  empty  place  where 
Deegan  Folk's  tall  Nuremberg  tankard  towered  like 
a  monument  before  his  empty  chair. 

It  was  the  Engineer,  recently  returned  from  ex- 
ile in  Manchuria,  who  asked  it: 

"Has  anybody  heard  anything  from  Deeg  Folk?" 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  time,  and  the  Engi- 
neer cleared  his  throat  over  the  silence.  These  were 
practical,  successful  men,  mostly  weaned  from  the 
sentimentality  of  undergraduate  days ;  yet  the  men- 
tion of  Deegan  Folk's  name  seemed  to  open  a  cold, 
invisible  door  and  to  bring  forth  a  shadow  to  that 
empty  chair. 

"He  was  always  able  to  take  care  of  himself," 
said  the  Editor,  in  rather  too  loud  a  voice.  "Con- 
fidence was  his  middle  name,  and  I'll  bet  he  knows 
what  he's  doing " 

"People  don't  drop  out  without  a  reason,"  said 
141 


142  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

the  Mayor  of  a  Western  town.  "And  Deeg  Folk 
wasn't  a  sneak — not  the  disappearing  sort/' 

The  Judge,  very  impressive  in  his  young- judicial 
manner,  merely  said,  "Hum!"  But  the  Professor 
of  Anthropology  turned  subjective  grey  eyes  be- 
hind his  thick  glasses  and  mused  aloud :  "We  don't 
know  what  we're  made  of,  do  we — impulses  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing?  And  there  are  strains " 

"Strains?"  asked  the  Engineer,  whose  specialty 
was  bridges.  "You  mean  steel  construction " 

"I  mean  life  construction,"  replied  the  educator. 
"The  powers  of  darkness  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue 
occasionally,  and — whisk!" 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  remarked  the  Judge. 
"But  it  has  been  a  long  time  now.  Four  years  since 
jolly  old  Deeg  occupied  that  chair  and  gave  us  the 
broad  grin — 1909,  wasn't  it?" 

"Lord,  he  was  a  card !"  snorted  the  Business  Man. 
"Remember  that  laugh  of  his?" 

"Remember  it !"  exclaimed  two  or  three  at  once, 
and  the  air  seemed,  for  the  first  time,  surcharged 
with  a  merry  spirit. 

"Regular  minstrel-show  hee-haw-yah.  Just  threw 
back  his  head,  opened  his  face,  showed  all  the  piano 
keys,  and  let  out  a  whoop.  Honest,  there  were 
times  in  my  college  days  when  that  laugh  kept  me 
alive." 

"I  don't  think  there's  any  doubt  that  he  was  the 
most  popular  man  of  his  day,"  said  the  Judge. 

"He  was  that  by  divine  right."    The  Editor,  not 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      143 

a  day  older  in  appearance  than  when  he  led  the 
cane-spree  in  his  sophomore  year,  brought  his  hand 
down  on  the  oak  surface.  "By  George,  fellows,  he 
was  the  best  dresser  and  the  best  looker  and  the 
most  democratic  and  the  whitest  man  I  ever  met." 

"White  and  square  to  the  very  centre,"  agreed 
the  Business  Man  solemnly.  His  eyes  swept  the  cir- 
cle with  the  question  which  their  loyalty  had  for- 
bidden them  asking  till  now.  "What  do  you  sup- 
pose  " 

"Has  become  of  him?"  the  Judge  supplied. 
"Mystery.  Men  have  gone  like  that  before — roll 
down  the  desk-top,  resign  the  directorship,  close 
banking — tut!" 

"It's  not  on  record  he  did  any  of  those  things; 
and  yet,  the  papers — er,  Whittle?"  The  Business 
Man  turned  to  the  Editor. 

"Not  a  word.  Lord !  It's  hard  to  associate  mys- 
tery with  old  Deeg." 

"I  thought  the  press  knew  everything,"  said  one. 

"Went  abroad  or  something,"  commented  an- 
other. "Married  and  living  in  New  York  when 
last  I  heard  of  him.  You  remember  that  pretty  Na- 
pier girl — she  got  Deeg.  His  father  left  him  money, 
and  he  had  a  small  office  in  the  Incorruptible  Title 
Company." 

"Remember  how  he  used  to  sing  'Rummy  Walk- 
er'?" chuckled  the  Business  Man.  "With  a  towel 
around  his  head  and  two  spoons  for  castanets — he 
could  get  more  darn- foolishness  out  of  nothing!" 


144  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

No  one  seemed  to  rise  to  his  humour. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Professor,  rapping  for  or- 
der, for  he  was  chairman  of  the  circle,  "it  has  been 
our  custom  to  close  the  gap  around  the  table  in  case 
of  the  death  of  one  of  our  members.  Two  have 
died  and  we  are  now  eighteen — nineteen  if  Dee- 
gan  Folk  is  still  alive.  His  place  has  stood  vacant 
so  long,  I  must  put  the  question  to  you:  Shall  we 
keep  it  for  him?" 

"Until  he  comes  back — or  we  know,"  replied  a 
voice  across  the  table. 

"Keep  his  place!  Keep  his  place!"  echoed  oth- 
ers around  the  room. 

"He  might  come  to-night,"  suggested  another. 
"You  know  the  way  he  used  to  blow  out  of  nowhere 
into  a  fellow's  room." 

"It's  three  minutes  before  twelve,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, laying  his  watch  on  the  table  before  him. 
"I'm  going  to  suggest  a  foolish,  sentimental  .thing. 
He  might  come  back,  as  you  say.  Miracles  happen. 
I  propose  that  we  sit  silent  till  the  clock  strikes ;  and 
well  wish  him  back." 

The  Eighteen  tilted  in  their  chairs,  perfectly  still, 
cigar-glows  punctuating  the  dimness  of  the  room, 
smoke-wreathes  winding  upward  like  ghosts  created 
by  their  common  wish.  Their  eyes  were  strained 
to  queer  angles,  these  practical  men,  with  the  ex- 
pression peculiar  to  middle-aging  citizens  leagued 
together  in  a  folly.  The  minutes  drew  long  and 
longer.  Some  one  coughed.  Footsteps,  tap-tap- 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?^    145 

tapping  outside  on  the  college  sidewalk,  came  to  a 
crescendo  at  the  door  before  the  chapter-house. 
Some  one  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  steps  seemed 
to  hesitate  an  instant,  then  diminuendoed  away  to- 
ward the  Quadrangle. 

The  big  clock  in  the  hall  began  to  boom  the  hour 
of  twelve.  The  Professor  arose  and  turned  on  the 
electric  switch,  revealing  many  strange  looks  around 
the  table. 

One — two,  boomed  the  clock. 

No  one  spoke  until  the  Editor  stirred  and  relit 
his  cigar. 

"One  thing  I  know/'  he  said.  "It's  not  dishonour 
or  shame  that's  keeping  him  away." 

Five — six — seven,  boomed  the  clock. 

"What,  then?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"Honour  and  pride.     He  was  an  aristocrat." 

The  clock  struck  the  last  note  of  twelve,  and  they 
shook  hands  to  meet  another  year. 


It  is  necessary  that  I  should  describe  the  appear- 
ance of  Deegan  Folk  as  he  entered  the  offices  of  the 
Incorruptible  Title  Company  on  the  morning  of 
May  10,  1910.  Nearly  six  feet  in  height,  with  a 
frame  designed  to  carry  good  clothes  well,  he  was 
the  picture  of  a  young  Fortunatus,  smiling  and  over- 
confident in  a  fate  that  had,  up  to  now,  sprinkled 


146  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

him  with  a  magic  ointment,  successfully  fending 
him  from  even  an  hour's  ill  luck.  His  profile,  show- 
ing traces  of  the  hawklike  Yankee  outline,  was  full 
and  strong.  He  carried  his  head  with  the  aggres- 
siveness of  the  dominant  Saxon;  for  he  was  of  the 
pure  blond  type,  blue-eyed,  clear-skinned,  and  with 
hair  and  eyebrows  that  were  almost  Swedish  in 
their  shade  of  pale  yellow. 

In  walking  through  the  black-walnut  splendours 
of  this  grand  old  establishment  which  his  father 
had  made  solvent,  Deegan  was  obliged  to  pass  be- 
tween observant  ranks  of  clerks  and  stenographers ; 
but  he  performed  this  act  with  serene  unconscious- 
ness, for  Deegan  Folk  was  of  too  proud  a  spirit  to 
feel  embarrassment  at  the  gaze  of  underlings.  Yet 
these  latter  this  morning,  pretending  industry, 
nudged  knowing  elbows  and  perked  inquisitive  eyes 
in  the  direction  of  his  well  tailored  back.  They 
knew  what  had  just  happened,  and  Deegan  Folk, 
knowing  that  they  knew,  rejoiced  in  all  the  vanity 
that  makes  even  the  finest  among  humankind  a  lit- 
tle mad.  To-day,  in  short,  was  his  thirty-third 
birthday;  and  young  Folk,  according  to  the  will  of 
Weyland  Folk,  his  father,  had  been  less  than  an 
hour  in  possession  of  a  substantial  fortune. 

"It's  a  wonder  it  don't  turn  his  knob !"  whispered 
Miss  Pinkus,  hesitating  over  her  purple  carbon  pa- 
per and  addressing  Miss  Kelley,  dawdling  at  the 
keys.  "A  million  and  a  half  in  the  bank.  I  should 
work!" 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      147 

"My  word,  isn't  he  the  good-looker!"  sighed  the 
dreaming  Miss  Kelley.  "Any  girl  would  be  lucky 
to  get  a  man  like  that,  even  if  he  came  with  ten  a 
week.  And  rich.  And  wedding  bells  for  him  in 
June.  It's  just  discouraging  to  think  about  that 
combination." 

Deegan  Folk,  the  fortunate,  smiled  as  if  he  heard, 
and  turned  in  at  the  glass  door  marked  "Private." 
Mr.  Cole  Maclntyre,  vice-president  of  the  institu- 
tion, stopped  him  on  the  way  in  to  extend  a  con- 
gratulatory hand  and  to  whisper  an  ancient  quip 
on  the  subject  of  matrimony  which  caused  the 
younger  man  to  throw  back  his  head  and  utter  a 
loud  shout  of  mirth,  displaying  teeth  as  even  as 
ivory  keys. 

This  was  the  last  recorded  occasion  upon  which 
Deegan  Folk  laughed  that  famous  laugh  of  his. 
The  sun  smiled,  however,  upon  the  morning's  work ; 
and  the  light  of  a  May  day,  shed  over  steam-plumed 
sky-scrapers  and  Merlin's  towers  of  lacy  gold  touch- 
ing the  young  blue  of  spring,  showed  the  good 
angles  in  that  strong  blond  face  of  his.  For,  as 
everybody  supposed,  the  son  had  inherited  charac- 
ter from  Weyland  Folk,  the  upright  man  whose 
portrait,  hung  over  Deegan's  desk,  revealed  a  face 
of  the  same  vital  cast  as  his  own.  The  son  bore  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  father,  but  the  latter 
had  been  darker-haired,  more  sallow  of  skin. 

Deegan  Folk  settled  to  his  day's  work.  His  brow 
was  knitting  to  the  stern  lines  of  business,  when  a 


148  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

discovery  amid  his  pile  of  mail  brought  back  the 
smile  to  his  full  lips.  He  opened  an  envelope  and 
laid  before  him  a  sample  engraving  that  had  been 
left  for  his  approval  : 

Mrs.  Stanley  Napier 

has  the  honor  of 

announcing  the  marriage  of  her  daughter 
Louise 

to 

Mr.  Deegan  Folk 

on  Saturday  the  third  of  June 

One  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ten 

at  the  Hedgerows 
Greenwich,  Connecticut 

A  secretary  entered  upon  his  joyful  criticism,  and 
the  face  of  Fortunatus  grew  stern  again. 

"Mr.  Bashfield,  sir." 

"Appointment?     Oh,  yes.     Show  him  in." 

Folk  slid  the  invitation  under  a  pile  of  letters  and 
looked  up  to  greet  the  little  attorney,  whose  large 
grey  goatee  and  beard  imparted  an  air  of  false  fe- 
rocity to  his  rather  gentle  face. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Bashfield !"  Using  a  rising 
inflection  to  signify  impatience  with  parley,  he  mo- 
tioned his  visitor  to  a  chair.  "Something  about  the 
estate.  Yes." 

"If  you  recall,  Mr.  Folk,"  said  the  attorney,  as 
he  tweaked  his  nubby  nose  with  owlish  glasses, 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      149 

''there  was  mention  in  your  late  father's  will  of  a 
certain  sealed  letter  to  be  delivered " 

"On  the  day  I  inherited.     So  there  was." 

Deegan  Folk  smiled  perfunctorily  this  time,  and 
glanced  toward  his  unread  mail,  hoping  the  lawyer 
would  curb  his  lust  for  reminiscence.  Folk  always 
tolerated  Bashfield  as  one  of  the  few  amiable  incom- 
petents whom  the  elder  Folk  had  permitted  in  his 
employ. 

"I've  delivered  it,"  said  the  little  man,  snapping 
a  long  envelope  out  of  his  pocket  and  thrusting  it 
nervously  under  Deegan's  nose.  "I  think  that  fin- 
ishes my  work.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  something 
very  comical  your  father  once  told  me,  if  you  have 
time " 

"Just  a  minute,  please." 

The  young  man,  slitting  an  end  of  the  blank  en- 
velope, permitted  a  pile  of  documents  to  fall  upon 
his  desk.  There  were  newspaper  clippings  of  an 
ancient  type,  several  yellow  pages  scrawled  with  dim 
signatures,  and  a  letter  in  shaky  handwriting  on 
modern  office  stationery.  Deegan  Folk,  being  me- 
thodical, started  at  the  top  of  the  heap,  read  the 
letter,  read  the  newspaper  clippings,  read  the  yellow 
pages,  folded  them  carefully,  put  them  back  in  their 
envelope,  placed  the  envelope  in  his  pocket,  and  sat 
staring  at  the  calendar  in  the  back  of  his  desk  so 
long  and  with  a  face  so  stony  that  the  lawyer  at 
last  ventured : 

"That  settles  my  business  with  the  estate,  Dee- 


150  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

gan.  Maybe  I'd  better  tell  you  those  anecdotes 
some  other  time." 

"It  would  be  just  as  well.  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Bashfield."  And  he  did  not  say  this  in  the  voice  of 
a  young,  handsome  Fortunatus,  dowered  with  plenty 
and  about  to  wed  his  heart's  delight. 

Fear,  in  fact,  had  entered  the  room  with  the  lit- 
tle old  attorney,  and  as  the  latter  toddled  down 
the  hall  his  cold  companion  stayed  and  sat  with 
Deegan  Folk. 

Ten  minutes  later,  walking  like  a  man  asleep,  he 
stepped  into  a  long  limousine  drawn  against  the 
Broadway  curb. 

"Where  to,  sir?"  inquired  the  uniformed  chauf- 
feur. 

"The  Hedgerows,  Greenwich,"  replied  Folk 
shortly. 

The  machine  began  weaving  its  way.  To  Deegan 
it  seemed  like  a  tumbrel  bearing  him  to  an  unde- 
served scaffold,  or  like  some  ridiculous  automobile 
in  which  he  had  ridden  in  dreams,  and  which  would 
presently  turn  into  a  boat  or  an  elephant  and  per- 
mit him  to  awake  in  his  hotel  bedroom.  Then,  to 
prove  the  reality  of  his  pain,  he  would  press  his 
hand  against  his  side  and  feel  the  crackle  of  the  big 
envelope  in  his  pocket.  Already  they  had  reached 
Pelham  Parkway,  and  the  motor  was  increasing  its 
speed.  Twice  Deegan  took  the  long  envelope  from 
concealment,  half  drew  its  contents  from  the  flap, 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      151 

then  thrust  them  hastily  back  as  if  his  fingers  had 
touched  the  cerements  of  plague. 


ii 

The  girl  in  the  blue  frock  crouched  in  the  walk 
of  the  rather  formal  garden,  thrusting  a  small 
trowel  among  the  roots  of  early  tulips.  The  tint 
of  her  cheeks  was  tenderly  young,  and  her  eyes, 
looking  down  the  little  archipelago  of  freckles  just 
under  them,  were  narrow  rims  of  violet.  Her  sun- 
hat  was  lined  with  rose,  and  the  colour  gave  to  her 
face  a  glow  of  sweetness  which  matched  her 
thoughts;  for  Louise  Napier  was  dreaming  again 
of  the  man  whom  she  never  saw  save  through  a 
veil  of  emotion.  Books  and  philosophers  had  told 
her  there  was  no  such  thing  as  happiness — that  it 
was  an  illusion  of  fools  to  be  shattered  by  wisdom. 
Poets  had  called  it  a  Blue  Bird  to  be  seen  but  once, 
and  that  by  foolish  children.  Her  mother,  a  fussy 
woman  who  prided  herself  on  her  knowledge  of 
men,  looked  upon  her  daughter's  delirium  with  a 
sort  of  worn  contempt,  and  cited  the  late  Stanley 
Napier  as  a  clay-footed  divinity.  Yet  here  to-day, 
her  slender,  tight-sleeved  arms  bending  indolently 
to  the  useless  furrowing  of  the  trowel,  Louise  was 
sure  she  had  discovered  something  new.  Her  ex- 
perience must  be  a  novel  one  in  the  history  of  life. 
There  was  happiness,  for  she  was  perfectly  sure  of 
the  man  she  loved. 


152  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

The  garden  path,  masked  by  high  hedges,  mean- 
dered toward  the  large  Georgian  house  of  rough 
brick  with  latticed  windows.  She  crouched,  a  pleas- 
ing blue  dot  in  the  arrangement  of  shrubs  and  grav- 
el, and  wondered  contentedly  why  she  had  never 
wanted  anything  more  of  life  than  marriage  with 
Deegan  Folk,  and  what  special  providence  had  de- 
creed that  he  should  have  cared  only  for  her.  Like 
her  thoughts,  the  random  blade  of  the  garden  tool 
wandered  among  flowers  so  far  away  that  she  did 
not  see  him  as  he  took  his  strangely  serious  way 
toward  her  down  the  path. 

There  was  no  pretence  about  Louise  Napier,  and 
she  had  never  tried  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  loved 
the  man  she  was  pledged  to  marry.  So,  had  she 
seen  him  to-day,  she  would  have  run  to  his  arms  as 
openly  as  a  delighted  child.  But  there  was  some- 
thing almost  stealthy  about  his  approach,  so  silent 
that  he  stood  over  her  quite  a  minute  before  she 
looked  up.  Deegan,  in  fact,  was  too  immersed  in 
his  own  problem  to  give  warning,  and  when  he 
saw  the  startled  face  she  suddenly  turned  to  him, 
something  showed  there  which  stabbed  him  to  the 
heart.  There  was  nothing  of  the  accustomed  joy  or 
welcome  or  admiration  in  her  look.  Instead,  she 
crouched  before  him  like  some  trapped  creature, 
dumb  with  terror.  Her  hands  fell  limp,  her  eyes 
went  wide,  and  the  pallor  of  her  face  brought  out 
the  freckles  under  her  eyes. 

"What's   the  matter?''  he  asked,   with  unusual 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?     153 

roughness,  his  teeth  showing  as  he  leaned  over  her. 

"Don't  I"  she  cried,  shrinking  still  farther  away. 
"Deegan,  I — I  can't  tell  why — I  can't  tell  you " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  am  I  such  a  monster? 
What's  happened  to  me  that  makes  you  behave  so?" 

His  face  was  now  as  pale  as  hers  as  he  leaned 
over  her. 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  I  saw  something — 
something  in  your  expression — It  looked  so " 

"So  what,  Louise  dear?  Don't  be  silly!  Tell 
me." 

He  was  smiling  again  now,  but  she  could  feel 
how  his  hand  trembled  as  he  touched  her  arm. 

"Deegan,  my  darling  boy,  forgive  me.  But  why 
did  you  look  so — what  shall  I  say?"  She  turned 
her  serious  eyes  away  and  puzzled  a  moment.  "So 
defiant  and — humiliated?" 

She  had  thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
was  wetting  his  cheek  with  a  flood  of  tears.  He 
held  her  very  still  for  a  long  time;  and  as  they 
turned  presently  and  walked  down  the  path,  their 
hands  clasped  lover  fashion,  fingers  locked,  she 
asked  timorously : 

"You're  not  hurt,  are  you,  Deegan  ?  You  under- 
stand, don't  you,  that  I'm  foolish  and  emotional 
and  nervous  to-day?  I've  wanted  to  see  you  since 
morning;  but  you  came  upon  me  so  suddenly " 

"Yes,  Louise,  I  understand." 

Where  was  the  Deegan  Folk  of  yesterday,  the 


154  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

merry,  exuberant  spirit  with  the  all  too  boisterous 
laugh  ? 

"I  understand."  He  spoke  rapidly  and  very  low. 
"But  I  saw  at  once  that  there  was  something  about 
me — in  me — that  you  suddenly  saw  and  didn't  like." 

"Nothing,  my  dearest,  nothing!  I  can't  imagine 
anything  happening  to  you  that  would  make  you 
anything  else  than  adorable  to  me.  I've  always 
loved  you;  I  always  shall." 

The  exquisite  girl  embraced  his  great  arm  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  filled  with 
worship.  They  walked  in  silence  for  a  while. 
Finally  they  stood  under  the  bright  leaves  of  a  bur- 
geoning maple,  and  he  turned  squarely  upon  her. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  it,"  he  began,  "but  I  must. 
Do  you  think  you  really  ought  to  marry  me  without 
thinking  it  over  some  more?" 

"Deegan!  What  a  queer  question.  How  did 
such  a  thing  ever  enter  your  head?"  she  asked, 
vaguely  worried. 

He  stood  contemplatively  stabbing  the  lawn  with 
his  walking-stick.  She  realised  that  he  had  never 
before  remained  serious  with  her  for  so  long  a  time. 

"Every  woman  has  a  right  to  reconsider  before 
her  marriage,  to  avoid  spoiling  her  life." 

"Then  you  don't  want  me  any  more?"  She 
stepped  back  a  pace  and  drew  her  slender  arms  be- 
hind her  back. 

"Dearest,  you  understand  my  heart.  Without 
you  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do.  But  I  love  you 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      155 

enough  to  want  to  look  out  for  your  happiness, 
whatever  happens  to  me.  I  want  you  to  be  fair 
to  yourself,  as  I  want  to  be  fair  to  you.  You 
mustn't  harness  your  life  to  a  regret  that  can't  be 
mended." 

"Regret?    What  regret?" 

Deegan  Folk  was  very  slow  to  answer. 

"We've  known  each  other  nearly  all  our  lives — 
years  before  we  realised  how  we  loved  each  other. 
Brothers  and  sisters  are  seldom  better  acquainted 
than  we've  been.  Have  you  ever,  before  to-day, 
seen  anything  about  me  you  might  recoil  from  later 
on?" 

"No,  Deegan,  my  dear.  Don't  think  be- 
cause  " 

"Why  did  I  frighten  you  so  just  now  when  you 
looked  at  me?"  Again  a  harsh  note  came  into  his 
voice. 

"Dear  boy!  Don't  think  I  was  afraid  of  you! 
Remember,  women  have  strange  nerves  which  mean 
nothing.  Oh,  don't  be  sensitive — you'll  break  my 
heart!" 

"I  could  see  it,  Louise.  It  was  as  if  you  were 
looking  at  a  strange  animal  that  had  come  to  hurt 
you."  He  gazed  moodily  away  across  the  Hedge- 
rows. 

"Deegan,  don't  say  that  any  more!" 

Her  voice  quavered  away,  and,  because  a  hedge 
separated  them  from  the  house,  he  consoled  her 
again,  and  swore,  defying  Fate,  that  there  was  no 


156  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

law  of  man,  God,  or  nature  that  could  take  her  from 
him. 

Like  the  Fate  defied,  there  appeared  on  the  ve- 
randa, just  as  they  came  out  from  the  cover  of  the 
hedge,  a  stout  lady  in  a  lavender  gown.  In  colour- 
ing and  profile  she  bore  an  elderly,  maternal  resem- 
blance to  Louise;  but  her  face  was  marred  by  a 
smile  that  was  at  once  mincing  and  ill-natured,  con- 
veying jealousy  and  a  certain  impertinent  intimacy. 

"Louise,  my  darling,  you've  been  crying!  What 
could  you  two  have  been  quarrelling  about?" 

"Oh,  mother,  we  don't  quarrel,"  protested  the 
girl,  embarrassed.  , 

"You  shouldn't,  I'm  sure.  Everybody's  talking 
about  you — you're  such  a  pair!  How  proud  I  shall 
be  of  my  handsome  children,  Deegan — and  my 
grandchildren !" 

She  said  this  with  a  smirk  that  caused  Folk  to 
wince.  But  he  made  a  perfunctory  reply,  for  in  his 
mind  he  was  reflecting  on  the  merits  of  a  mother-in-, 
law  who  did  protest  too  much. 


ill 

As  soon  as  they  returned  from  their  honeymoon 
in  France,  they  took  a  New  York  house  belonging 
to  the  Folk  estate,  a  sizable  Victorian  brownstone 
in  the  East  Seventies  with  a  slanting  view  of  Cen- 
tral Park  and  an  interior  of  walnut  magnificence 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      157 

which  had  been  somewhat  qualified  by  subsequent 
generations  who  had  "gone  in"  for  Flemish  panel- 
ling and  French  walls  with  gilt  chairs.  There  was  a 
pervading  comfortable  gloom  about  the  place  which 
Louise  ignored  at  first,  happiness  being  there  also ; 
but  as  the  months  wore  on  and  life  looked  in  at  the 
window,  the  dull  glory  of  the  place  seemed  to  hang 
over  her. 

It  was  on  a  grey  afternoon  in  the  winter  of  1911, 
the  crystal  lamps  already  burning  in  the  formal  sit- 
ting-room, that  Mrs.  Deegan  Folk  sat  busily  stitch- 
ing beside  her  mother,  who  was  similarly  occupied, 
a  tangle  of  white  embroideries  sliding  slowly,  like 
the  advance  of  glaciers,  from  her  lap  to  the  floor. 

"I've  always  prided  myself  on  my  knowledge  of 
men,"  announced  Mrs.  Napier,  as  she  pursed  her 
mouth  over  a  difficult  stitch. 

"I  suppose  that  refers  to  Deegan?"  inquired 
Louise,  rather  sharply. 

This  irritability  had  developed  amazingly  in  the 
young  woman  in  the  past  two  weeks.  Something 
in  the  dread  of  her  approaching  ordeal  caused  her 
to  see  old  idols  without  enchantment;  and  to  her 
her  mother  was  appearing  as  the  self-dazzled,  igno- 
bly inquisitive,  egocentric  individual  whose  mind 
has  never  grown  beyond  its  harem  walls. 

"There,  there,  my  child — if  I  make  you  nervous !" 
protested  Mrs.  Napier,  in  a  tone  that  conveyed  less 
mother  love  than  jaded  patience. 

"Oh,  mother,  go  on  with  your  mystery !" 


158  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Louise  brushed  her  sewing  to  the  floor  and  sat 
with  folded  hands. 

"Well,  it's  very  peculiar,  Louise,  you  must  ad- 
mit Not  that  it's  in  my  province  to  interfere — 
and  Deegan  has  been  such  a  good  husband  up  to 
now." 

"And  now?"  The  younger  woman's  smile  was 
like  an  electric  flash. 

"Well — "  Mrs.  Napier  turned  her  head  to  one 
side  and  patted  the  embroidery  on  her  lap.  "He 
seems  to  be  coming  home  from  the  office  about  when 
he  feels  like  it.  I  told  him  this  morning  he  was 
quite  a  stranger;  but  he  didn't  seem  to  see  the  joke 
— he's  losing  all  his  sense  of  humour." 

Mrs.  Napier  was  very  proud  of  her  sense  of  hu- 
mour. 

"Is  that  all  you  can  think  of?"  inquired  Louise 
in  a  rather  high  key. 

"Don't  you  notice  he's  sulking  a  great  deal  ?  Oh, 
but  then!  We  must  remember,  the  poor  boy  can't 
tell  us  women-folks  about  his  business  cares." 

"Mother,  I  think  you're  dreadfully  absurd !"  cried 
the  daughter,  getting  slowly  to  her  feet.  "I  asked 
you  here  to  help  me.  You  have,  dear;  but  you'll 
drive  me  mad  if  you  continue  making  mysteries  out 
of  thin  air.  What  are  you  trying  to  imply?" 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing,  I'm  sure.  Forgive  me, 
darling!"  Mrs.  Napier's  plump  arm  went  round 
her  daughter's  shoulder.  "I'm  sorry  if  I  disturbed 
you,  honey.  I  think  Deegan  is  the  best  man  in  the 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      159 

world,  and  we're  all  so  proud  of  him — he's  been  a 
perfect  husband.  And  he  comes  of  such  a  splendid 
family." 

"What  were  you  trying  to  imply?"  persisted 
Louise,  fixing  her  mother's  weaker  gaze  inexorably. 

"Well "  Mrs.  Napier  looked  away.  "Do 

you  think  Deegan  wants  a — family?" 

"Mother,  you  must  go  out  and  leave  me  alone," 
said  Louise  quietly. 

The  elder  woman,  donning  the  martyr's  crown, 
arose,  sighed  with  sad  thoughts  unspoken,  and  bus- 
tled away. 

Leaning  wearily  on  the  window-casing,  the 
(laughter  looked  out  into  the  snowy  street  and  wait- 
ed, as  she  had  waited  these  weeks,  for  her  husband 
to  return  naturally  and  cheerfully,  as  he  used  to  do, 
to  seek  her  out  and  be  frank  with  her.  She  had 
hoped  her  mother  hadn't  noticed,  and  she  had  dread- 
ed just  such  a  scene  as  to-day's  left-handed  affec- 
tion had  revealed  to  her. 

She  watched  the  line  of  motor-cars  returning 
homeward  through  the  slushy  street  with  its  moisty 
ruts  and  edgings  of  grimy  snow.  Many  carriage- 
lamps  were  lit  in  the  dusk,  and  she  pictured  these 
gas-drawn  monsters  as  a  herd  of  fabulous  cattle 
snorting  to  some  strange  feeding-ground  beyond. 
Suddenly  her  heart  leaped  as  she  beheld  a  long  black 
limousine  lumber  aside  like  a  savage  bullock  desert- 
ing the  parent  herd.  It  warped  against  the  curb  be- 


160  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

fore  her  door,  and  the  pale  young  woman  could  see 
her  husband  stepping  from  the  tonneau. 


IV 

She  watched  him  pass  her  door  without  looking 
round,  and  his  face,  as  it  flashed  by  in  the  dim-lit 
hall,  seemed  so  thin  and  weary  that  the  mother  in- 
stinct within  her  urged  her  to  go  to  him.  Surely 
he  would  tell  her  now,  if  she  asked,  just  as  he  al- 
ways told  her  everything!  Yet  she  stood  perfectly 
still  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  although  she  lost 
not  a  beat  of  his  footsteps  retreating  down  the  soft 
carpeting  of  the  hallway  until  the  door  of  his  library 
clicked. 

Behind  that  barrier  Deegan  Folk  had  settled  him- 
self wearily  into  an  arm-chair.  A  coal  fire  in  the 
old-fashioned  grate  added  tragedy  to  his  serious 
face  as  he  leaned  forward  on  his  elbows  and  re- 
sumed the  fear  that  seemed  always  at  his  shoulder 
like  an  unhappy  spectre.  He  thought  of  it  as  a 
spectre,  and  smiled  miserably.  Ghosts  can  be  ex- 
orcised, but  the  trouble  that  haunted  him  was 
the  one  inseparable  thing — himself.  The  door 
opened  so  softly  and  Louise  came  into  the  room  so 
quietly  that  he  was  unaware  of  her  until  slender 
hands  were  clasped  against  his  cheek  and  she  had 
drawn  his  head  to  her. 

"My  boy,  my  poor  boy — what  is  it?"  she  whis- 
pered. 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      161 

"Lou,  dear !"  She  could  scarcely  hear  his  voice, 
although  he  spoke  close  to  her  ear.  "You  won't 
leave  me — ever?" 

"Deegan,  you  know  I  won't.  Nothing  could 
make  me.  No  one  could  take  me  from  you." 

"It's  terrible  for  a  man  to  be  so  dependent  on  a 
woman,  Lou.  I'm  not  the  wandering  sort.  I  can't 
get  companionship  out  of  men,  the  way  I  could  a 
few  years  ago.  Without  a  woman — my  woman — 
I'd  be  a  lost  dog — starving,  starving " 

He  groaned  so  miserably  that  she  held  him  more 
tightly. 

"Dearest,  tell  me— what  is  it?" 

"Nothing.  I'm  worried.  Rotten  lawsuits  and  a 
lot  of  irritating  fools  in  the  office." 

He  rested  his  chin  on  his  knuckles,  and  as  the  red 
glare  caught  his  strong  Saxon  profile  she  reflected 
gratefully  that  no  woman  ever  deserved  so  fine  a 
husband. 

"A  woman  doesn't  leave  a  man  she  loves  on  ac- 
count of  a  lawsuit — unless  it's  a  suit  for  divorce," 
she  laughed.  "Is  it  money  you  mean,  dear?"  she 
asked  finally.  "Are  we  going  to  lose  everything? 
If  it's  that,  don't  worry.  I  won't,  because  I  know 
we  can  fight  it." 

"No,  it's  not  exactly  money;  or — yes,  yes." 

He  cleared  his  throat;  there  was  something 
strangely  evasive  in  the  sound. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  dear  boy.  You  needn't  keep 
anything  from  me.  There's  nothing  you  could  do  I 


1 62  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

wouldn't  understand  and  try  to  help  you  out  of. 
You  know  that.  Is  it  some  other  woman?" 

"How  could  it  be,  Lou?"  Both  his  arms  went 
round  her,  and  he  looked  steadily  into  her  eyes, 
sparkling  in  the  reflected  flame.  "I  have  never 
looked  away  from  you — I  could  never  imagine  such 
a  thing.  You  know  that." 

As  their  two  faces,  young,  disturbed,  full  of  the 
beauty  of  life  and  youth,  showed  close  together  in 
the  glow,  no  watcher  of  souls  could  have  said  they 
were  not  well  mated. 

"Tell  me,"  she  persisted,  after  a  silence. 

"The  truth,  dear," — he  hesitated  for  a  point  of 
time, — "doesn't  sound  so  terrific.  It's  merely  a 
plain  business  worry.  Several  competing  concerns 
— the  Ajax  and  others — have  brought  suit  for  an 
issue  of  stock,  and  I've  been  obliged  to  shoulder 
the  whole  thing — financier,  lawyer,  chore-boy, 
everything.  I  can't  drop  the  work,  because  there's 
nobody  I  can  trust  until  this  fight  is  over.  It's  hor- 
ribly on  my  nerves.  I  can't  sleep  nights,  because 
those  percentages  keep  on  fighting  in  the  back  of 
my  head.  That's  all,  dear  girl.  I've  made  a  mess 
and  a  mystery  of  it  for  you  merely  because  I  didn't 
want  to  pester  you  with  my  troubles — not  at  this 
time." 

His  voice  was  tired,  but  it  brought  conviction 
to  her. 

"You  pester  me  more,  dear,  by  not  telling  me 
things.  Nothing  else  on  your  mind?" 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      163 

"Nothing  more,  Lou — except  you  must  take  care 
of  yourself  when  I'm  obliged  to  be  away  so  much." 

"Then  why  did  you  say  that  thing — about  my 
leaving  you  and  your  being  a  lost  dog?"  She  eyed 
him  quizzically. 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  neurotic  and  I've  taken  to 
babbling." 

"Poor  Deegan!     Can't  you  get  away  from  it?" 

"God,  how  I  wish  I  could!"  And  it  was  the  pas- 
sion with  which  he  arose  and  clenched  his  fists 
against  invisible  odds  that  brought  back  to  her  the 
fear  she  could  not  name.  "Louise,  we've  grown 
terribly  close  to  each  other  in  this  year,"  he  went 
on  at  last,  more  calmly.  "Don't  you  think  it's  be- 
cause— because  we  knew  each  other  so  long  be- 
fore?" 

"Yes,  Deeg.    I  liked  you  from  the  first  day " 

"When  I  came  back  from  prep  school?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"Yes.  You  were  riding  the  big  sorrel  mare.  You 
were  an  awful  cub,  but  I  don't  think  I've  liked  any- 
body very  hard  since  then." 

"That  was  when  I  first  liked  you,  too,"  he  con- 
fessed, with  more  gaiety  than  he  had  shown  for 
weeks.  "What  was  it  about  me  you  fancied  ?" 

"You  seemed  so  my  kind — to  belong  to  my  sort 
of  people." 

"Yes." 

Deegan  Folk  looked  suddenly  away  into  the  fire. 

"And,  Deegan — "     She  arose  and  laid  her  hand 


164  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

shyly  on  his  arm.  "You  won't  hate  it  when  it 
comes?  You  won't  hate  our  baby?" 

"Hate  it?  Lord,  no!  I'll  love  it  to  death. 
We're  going  to  be  tremendously  happy,  we  three." 

And  when  a  tap  at  the  door  announced  the  hour 
of  dinner,  it  was  an  apparently  calm  and  smiling 
couple  that  came  out  of  the  dark  library. 


The  child  was  born  in  a  private  hospital  which 
Dr.  Norsig,  New  York's  fashionable  obstetrician, 
had  suggested.  It  seemed  a  week-long  battle  to 
Deegan  Folk ;  in  actual  time  it  was  many  hours  too 
long.  This  man,  sensitive  with  a  hereditary  culti- 
vation, sensitised  by  an  artificial  society  which 
quickens  imagination  where  it  can  not  feed  the  soul, 
hour  after  hour  sat  alone,  waiting  for  the  fine  and 
gentle  thing  he  adored  to  give  herself  to  a  brutal 
martyrdom.  Some  of  that  day  he  spent  in  the  pri- 
vate parlour  downstairs,  a  small  room  hideous  with 
cheerful  decorations,  coloured  engravings  of  gay 
Versailles  on  a  pink  wall,  and  with  red-backed  sets 
of  Washington  Irving,  Walter  Scott,  and  James 
Fenimore  Cooper  on  the  book-shelves  sardonically 
offering  themselves  as  sedatives  to  a  sick  mind. 

They  wouldn't  let  him  go  near  her — that  was 
the  grievance  which  plagued  his  thoughts  with  a 
childish  persistency.  Strangely,  in  this  hour  of  or- 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      165 

deal,  the  fact  that  he  could  not  be  of  service  hurt 
him  more  poignantly  than  the  real  fear,  which 
should  have  loomed  now  above  all  other  considera- 
tions. He  whose  joy  and  duty  it  was  to  be  with  her 
in  everything  that  counted — this  he  balanced  over 
and  over  in  his  brain — here  she  must  cross  this 
frightful  abyss  alone  or  in  the  charge  of  strangers 
who  didn't  care.  The  hours  ticked  by  from  a  fear- 
ful French  clock  on  the  mantel.  Sometimes  he 
would  call  a  taxicab  and  whirl  to  a  Fifth  Avenue 
club,  where  he  drank  Scotch  whisky  and  felt  no 
stimulation.  Sometimes  Dr.  Norsig,  a  strong, 
square-faced  man,  would  come  in  and  converse  in 
a  mock-sprightly  tone  which,  to  Deegan's  distorted 
mind,  seemed  a  mask  to  cover  some  fearful  ca- 
lamity. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  lightly, — and  his  voice  held 
the  irritating  tinkle  of  joy-bells  on  a  day  of  mourn- 
ing,-— "these  things  don't  happen  without  some  in- 
convenience. Nature  has  fixed  that,  and  you  know 
it's  written  that  man  shall  be  born  of  woman  in  pain 
and  suffering.  Women  ought  to  suffer  a  bit  for 
their  rewards — it  makes  them  better  mothers,  bet- 
ter women.  See  her?  Oh,  no.  You  wouldn't  want 
to  do  that — very  unwise.  Go  out  for  a  walk,  my 
boy — there'll  be  plenty  of  time." 

Occasionally  a  nurse  going  through  would  smile 
and  say,  "Not  yet!"  in  that  same  note  of  madden- 
ing joyousness.  If  some  one  around  the  damnable 
place  would  only  weep  or  tear  his  hair !  Then  Dee- 


1 66  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

gan  would  call  another  taxicab,  visit  more  clubs, 
drink  more  spiritless  alcohol. 

At  last,  from  his  imprisonment  in  that  abomina- 
ble parlour,  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  corridor. 
Then  the  fear  came  in  and  took  the  place  of  the 
pity  that  had  been  his  master  for  so  many  hours. 
The  moment  had  arrived.  The  mother's  pain  was 
over,  but  his,  perhaps,  had  begun.  The  footsteps 
came  closer,  but  he  remained  quietly  in  his  chair, 
hoping  the  message  would  be  for  some  one  else,  that 
the  messenger  would  pass  his  door. 

The  truth  was  there  in  that  room  upstairs — why 
couldn't  he  remain  detached  from  it?  He  never 
knew  how  long  he  waited  in  this  blank.  At  last 
the  knob  turned,  and  a  nurse — she  did  not  smile 
this  time — beckoned  him  outside.  He  bobbed  up 
like  a  wooden  thing  on  springs  and  followed  her 
mechanically. 

Not  more  than  five  minutes  could  have  dragged 
themselves  over  the  face  of  that  frivolous  clock 
when  Deegan  Folk  returned  with  the  step  of  a  pris- 
oner who  returns  to  his  cell  after  sentence  has  been 
passed.  Dr.  Norsig,  a  shade  too  pale  for  a  leader 
in  his  militant  profession,  held  the  younger  man 
helpfully  by  a  forearm  and  led  him  to  a  chair. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Folk.     No?     A  cigar?     No?" 

Dr.  Norsig  himself  settled  wearily  down.  He 
was  very  tired,  and  dark  furrows  showed  under  his 
eyes  from  the  long  strain  and  struggle  he  had  un- 
dergone. Folk  fell  heavily  on  a  couch. 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      167 

"Now,  the  question  is,"  said  the  doctor,  "do  you 
want  the  mother  to  see  the  baby — er — at  once?" 
Dr.  Norsig  toyed  with  a  large  watch-charm  bearing 
the  insignia  of  a  fraternal  order.  "Personally,  I 
should  advise  against  it." 

"Naturally,  she  will  ask  to  see  it.  How  can  it  be 
avoided  ?" 

Folk  was  surprised  at  the  coolness  with  which  he 
put  the  question. 

"I've  not  had  a  case  precisely  like  this,"  said  the 
physician,  with  the  squint  of  a  chemist  examining 
test-tubes.  "They  occur  now  and  then — one  at  the 
Presbyterian  last  week,  I  am  told.  It's  best  to  let 
her  get  her  strength.  Some  would  advise  a — er — 
more  radical  step.  Unfortunately,  I  have  a  medical 
conscience.  Still,  that  can  be  stretched  a  bit.  We 
might  put  stress  on  her  weakness  and  peculiar  ner- 
vous condition.  She's  not  strong,  you  know,  and 
this  thing  hasn't  happened  easily.  We  might  tell 
her  that  her  condition  positively  demands  perfect 
quiet  and  that  it  would  be  inadvisable  for  her  to 
see  her  baby  until  some — well,  some  remote  date. 
And  in  the  meantime — — " 

"Mrs.  Folk  is  asking  for  Mr.  Folk,"  announced 
a  woman  in  white,  appearing  at  the  door. 

Deegan  Folk,  rising  stiffly,  his  face  impassive, 
followed  her  into  the  hall. 

The  room  still  smelled  of  ether,  and  she  lay  there 
among  the  pillows,  with  her  golden-brown  hair  in 


1 68  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

the  thick  braid  of  repose.  Something  deathly  in 
her  gentle,  graceful  head,  with  its  finely  moulded 
chin  and  delicate  brows,  restrained  him  from  his 
first  impulse  to  caress  her  back  into  his  world.  She 
turned  upon  him  eyes  that  were  heavy  with  the 
drugging  and  the  pain. 

"My  baby,"  she  said  softly,  reaching  out  a  cool 
and  listless  hand. 

"Yes,  dear.     They'll  bring  him  to  you  soon." 

Deegan  knelt  beside  her  cot  and  pressed  her  slen- 
der fingers  to  his  lips. 

"Queer — I  don't  hear  him  cry.  I  thought  he'd 
cry.  He  isn't  dead,  is  he?" 

Her  voice  still  held  the  far-away  dream-note. 
Her  lips  were  drawn  tight  and  her  brows  came  close 
together  in  an  effort  to  understand. 

"It's  a  girl,  dear — and  she  isn't  dead." 

The  head  on  the  pillow  turned  with  a  deep  and 
happy  sigh. 

"She  must  be  nice,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"She's  a  beautiful  child,"  replied  Deegan  Folk 
— and  rushed  suddenly  into  the  corridor  to  conceal 
the  flood  of  passionate  tears  that  burst  the  dikes 
of  civilised  restraint  and  seemed  to  carry  speech  and 
thought  and  life  before  them. 

VI 

In  ten  days  they  took  her  home,  because  no  med- 
ical sophistries  could  mask  the  evasions  that  sur- 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      169 

rounded  her.  They  promised  her  that  the  child 
should  be  brought  to  her  soon  after  she  had  become 
accustomed  to  her  home  and,  had  rested  a  little 
more. 

"But  I'm  rested  enough  now,"  she  told  Deegan 
feverishly.  "It  seems  queer  a  doctor — a  man  doc- 
tor— should  know  more  about  a  mother's  feelings 
than  she  does  herself." 

"He's  brought  us  through  so  far;  let's  follow 
out  his  programme,"  was  her  husband's  defence  of 
the  situation. 

She  seemed  more  contented  in  her  own  bedroom, 
surrounded  by  the  pictures  and  the  chintz  and  the 
mahogany  that  were  intimately  her  own.  Had  Dr. 
Norsig  been  more  of  a  politician  and  less  a  scientist, 
he  would  never  have  permitted  Mrs.  Napier,  that 
well-intentioned  evil-doer,  to  have  had  access  to  her 
daughter's  room  during  this  trying  period.  But 
this  respectable  lady  came  and  went  as  she  pleased, 
Invented  cheerful  conversation,  and  managed  to 
drop  dark  hints  in  the  guise  of  optimism.  Mrs. 
Napier  was  of  the  tribe  of  elderly  ladies  whose  mis- 
sion it  is  to  light  the  candle  of  truth  in  powder  mag- 
azines. The  doctor  came  twice  daily,  but  quibbled 
and  temporised  when  Louise  pleaded  for  a  glimpse 
of  her  child.  Peculiar  conditions  were  cited  amid 
a  tangle  of  terms  from  which  Louise  could  only 
draw  the  inference  that  her  strength  was  less  than 
she  imagined,  but  that  the  baby  was  thriving  under 
competent  care.  And  always  she  asked  how  soon. 


170  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

One  morning  Mrs.  Napier  took  her  large  person 
to  a  chair  by  the  bed  and  folded  plump  hands. 

"Why  are  you  so  tragic,  mother?"  Louise  asked, 
searching  the  face  beside  her. 

"Positively  nothing,  my  dear.  Nothing  has  hap- 
pened which  could  possibly  disturb  me.  You 
mustn't  get  all  stirred  up." 

Mrs.  Napier  pursed  her  rather  loose  lips  in  her 
best  imitation  of  self-restraint  under  distressing 
conditions. 

"Don't  sit  there  like  that,  mother!"  pleaded 
Louise,  her  excitement  increasing.  "What  is  it?" 

"I  was  only  wondering,  child.  Dr.  Norsig  and 
Deegan  seem  so — secretive.  It's  like  a  conspiracy. 
Men  can't  take  care  of  children,  much  as  they  think 
they  can.  Surely  there  is  no  reason  why  your  baby 
could  not  be  as  well  cared  for  here  as  in  a  strange 
hospital.  Still," — more  pursing  of  the  lips, — "I 
suppose  Dr.  Norsig  is  considered  a  perfectly  com- 
petent man." 

"Mother — has  something  happened  to  my  baby? 
Oh,  tell  me — tell  me !  Nobody  tells  me  anything !" 

"Hush,  darling,  hush!  Don't  misunderstand  me 
— I  wouldn't  interfere  for  the  world.  I  was  just 
wondering  if  it  was — regular — for  them  to  keep  it 
away  so  long.  There's  so  much  fad  nowadays.  It 
wasn't  so  when " 

Louise  suddenly  burst  into  hysterical  sobs. 

"I  want  her — my  baby !    I  want  my  baby!" 

Miss  Bowers,  the  nurse,  came  in  and  motioned 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      171 

Mrs.  Napier  out.  She  took  the  young  mother  in 
her  strong  embrace  and  patted  her  into  silence. 

"There !"  she  soothed  her.  "You  shall  have  your 
baby.  Nobody  shall  say  a  word  against  it  any 
more." 

"At  once!" 

The  nurse  had  intended  to  temporise,  like  the  oth- 
ers ;  but  the  look  in  Louise  Folk's  face  spoke  to  the 
woman  in  her,  and  she  felt  that  longer  delay  would 
mean  disaster. 

"Telephone  Dr.  Norsig,  or  whoever  is  in  charge 
of  my  baby,  that  she  must  be  brought  right  here  at 
once.  Now — or  I'll  do  something  wrong.  Now — 
do  you  hear?  If  you  don't,  I'll  get  up  and  go — 
I'll  go  out  into  the  snow  just  as  I  am." 

"Lie  still,  please,  and  I'll  have  it  all  fixed  for  you 
right  away — if  the  doctor  is  agreeable,"  Miss  Bow- 
ers added. 

"He's  going  to  be  agreeable." 

Louise  Folk's  voice  was  as  cold  as  steel,  and  she 
settled  back  on  her  pillow,  where  she  lay  staring 
at  the  wall.  Bright  spots  appeared  on  the  wonder- 
ful softness  of  her  cheeks,  and  the  pupils  of  her 
eyes  were  so  distended  that  the  iris  seemed  as 
black  as  coal. 

It  was  about  twilight  when  the  door-bell  rang 
and  she  heard  strange  footsteps  mounting  the  stairs. 
She  strained  from  her  pillows  to  listen  to  mysteri- 
ous whisperings  uttered  between  women  in  the  hall. 

Some  one  said,  "I'll  take  it,"  and  some  one  else 


172  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

went  downstairs.  The  room  was  dim,  and  the  baby 
was  brought  in,  such  a  bundle  of  soft  wrappings 
that  she  could  not  know;  but  she  lay  cuddling  it 
and  pressing  it  to  her  bosom  with  little  hungry 
words  of  endearment. 

"I  haven't  really  ever  seen  it,"  she  said  at  last  to 
the  attendant  nurse.  "The  idea  that  it  would  hurt 
me  to  have  my  baby !  Doctors  are  such  fools  about 
some  things.  Why  don't  you  turn  on  the  light  and 
let  me  see  her?" 

"The  baby's  eyes — "  began  Miss  Bowers. 

"Turn  on  the  light!"  demanded  the  mother. 

The  nurse's  hand  trembled  as  she  touched  the 
switch  and  the  room  was  flooded  with  light. 

Then  it  was  that  the  mother,  holding  the  child 
before  her,  uttered  a  cry  of  absolute  despair  and 
dropped  the  little  bundle  to  the  coverlet  beside  her. 

"It  isn't  mine !"  she  screamed.  "Oh,  take  it  away ! 
It's  black — it's  a  negro.  They've  played  a  horrid 
trick — it  isn't  mine !  It  isn't  my  baby !  It  isn't  my 
baby!" 

Moaning  like  a  demented  thing,  she  sat  rocking 
back  and  forth,  repeating  over  and  over  again  the 
phrase,  "It  isn't  mine !"  until  the  nurse  came  to  com- 
fort the  child,  who  now  lay  crying  and  neglected. 
Still  the  young  woman  shrieked  and  called  wildly, 
"It  isn't  mine!"  Over  and  over  she  repeated  the 
phrase,  like  some  maddening  litany.  At  last  she 
saw  her  husband's  hunted  face  in  the  door. 

"Look,    Deegan,"    she   called    out,    instinctively 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      173 

turning  to  him  for  help.  "See  what  they've  done — 
what  a  foolish  mistake."  She  laughed,  and  it  was 
hard  to  hear.  "They've  brought  somebody's  negro 
baby  to  me.  Make  them  take  it  back.  It  isn't  mine. 

It  isn't  mine!    It  isn't " 

Something  she  saw  at  that  instant  arrested  her 
hysterical  speech  as  effectively  as  if  a  strong  hand 
had  held  her  by  the  throat.  For  she  saw  on  Deegan 
Folk's  face  that  look  of  base  humiliation,  that  jun- 
gle look,  that  African  look,  which  she  had  suddenly 
beheld  in  him  when  he  stood  over  her  in  her  garden 
a  year  before.  And  she  spoke  no  more. 


VII 

"Listen,"  he  began  humbly,  and  there  was  some- 
thing fearfully  respectful  in  the  way  he  addressed 
her,  standing  at  a  distance,  his  head  bowed,  his  eyes 
not  meeting  hers.  "The  child  is  ours — yours  and 
mine."  He  said  this  very  low. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  And  the  glance  she  gave 
him  was  as  distant  as  that  of  a  Virginian  woman 
addressing  her  slave. 

"Louise — if  you'll  still  let  me  call  you  that."  He 
did  not  raise  his  eyes.  "If  you  don't  mind,  we'll 
have  Miss  Bowers  take — my  baby  out." 

As  soon  as  the  nurse  had  withdrawn  with  her 
bundle,  he  went  on,  in  the  monotonous  voice  of  a 
criminal  confessing  before  a  district  attorney: 


174  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"When  I  first  loved  you — when  I  proposed  to 
you — I  didn't  kiiow.  I  swear  this  on  my  honour 
as  a — man.  It  was  only  a  month  before  we  were 
married,  when  we  had  gone  so  far  that  my  life 
seemed  to  depend  on  having  you,  that  I  learned 
the  truth." 

"What  truth?"  She  held  him  coldly  with  her 
eyes. 

"My  father,  Weyland  Folk — your  father  knew 
him  and  associated  with  him." 

"My  father  knew  him  well/'  she  agreed. 

"He  never  told  me  anything  during  his  life.  He 
was  a  rich  man  and  supposedly  of  one  of  the  best 
families  in  New  England ;  and  he  educated  me  in  a 
way  that  made  me  proud  of  myself  and  my  connec- 
tions and  my  fortune.  If  I'd  been  merely  a  middle- 
class  boy  running  wild,  it  wouldn't  have  been  so 
bad.  But  you  know  the  sort  of  chaps  I  was  brought 
up  with  and  got  used  to.  I  was  to  be  independently 
rich  at  thirty-three — he  left  that  in  his  will.  But 
with  his  will  he  left  a  letter  to  be  opened  as  soon  as 
I  inherited.  My  God,  how  I  wish  I'd  never  seen 
him  or  his  money!" 

Deegan  Folk  struck  his  forehead  with  the  shank 
of  his  hand. 

"Go  on,"  said  his  confessor. 

"He  left  this  sealed  letter." 

Deegan  brought  from  his  pocket  the  familiar  en- 
velope delivered  to  him  by  Mr.  Bashfield  on  that 
May  morning  in  1910. 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      175 

"Shall  I  read  it?" 

His  wife  nodded,  and  he  read: 

"My  dear  Son: 

"If  I  live  until  your  thirty-third  year  and  you  are 
still  unmarried, — as  I  trust  you  will  be,  for  the 
Folks  usually  marry  late, — I  shall  tell  you  the  truth 
about  myself.  Otherwise  it  will  be  necessary  for 
you  to  open  this  letter  and  learn  the  painful  facts 
in  our  peculiar  case.  You  will  find  inclosed  with 
this  certain  clippings  from  Salem  newspapers  dated 
1831,  and  you  will  learn  from  them  that  one  Cap- 
tain Jeremiah  Folk,  a  trader,  was  published  as 
having  married  Anna  Briggs,  a  freedwoman — oth- 
erwise a  negress.  You  will  also  find  inclosed  rec- 
ords of  that  marriage  from  a  Salem  church  regis- 
ter, the  principals  in  which  transaction  I  have  taken 
pains  to  identify  as  the  same  Captain  Folk  and 
Anna  Briggs  mentioned  in  the  newspaper  account. 
I  confess  with  shame,  my  boy,  that  there  is  no  es- 
cape from  the  conclusion  that  I,  your  father,  am  an 
eighth-part  negro,  and  that  you,  my  son,  are  a  six- 
teenth part  tainted  with  the  blood  of  that  race. 

"I  married  your  mother  with  a  feeling  of  great 
responsibility  and  after  much  prayer.  But  I  de- 
cided to  take  my  chances  with  Fate,  and  was  de- 
lighted in  your  birth,  a  child  absolutely  without 
negro  traits. 

"You  know — or  you  should  be  made  acquainted 
with  the  fact — that  the  principal  danger  in  the  mar- 
riage between  a  white  person  and  a  person  of  ever 
so  slight  African  mixture  is  in  the  chance  that  a 


176  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

child  may  be  born  perfectly  black,  however  light  the 
parents  may  have  been.  In  my  own  case,  for  in- 
stance, I  was  fortunate;  but  in  the  case  of  my  sis- 
ter— a  woman  even  more  Caucasian  in  appearance 
than  myself — a  black  child  was  born;  but  we  were 
saved  from  disgrace  by  the  child's  death  in  early  in- 
fancy. 

"I  write  this  letter  merely  as  a  precaution  to  you, 
in  order  that  you  may  consider  the  matter  and  leave 
it  to  your  conscience.  You  may  be  reassured,  to  an 
extent,  in  the  knowledge  that  a  throw-back,  or  re- 
versal to  African  type,  is  less  apt  to  occur  as  the 
blood  grows  lighter.  Personally,  I  do  not  think 
your  danger  is  great;  for  your  child,  should  you 
have  one,  will  be  merely  one  thirty-second  part  col- 
oured ;  and  I  have  been  told  by  competent  authori- 
ties on  heredity  that  for  a  child  to  be  born  black 
under  such  conditions  is  an  accident  that  happens 
less  than  once  in  a  million  times.  However,  it  is 
said  that  a  princess  of  France  was  so  born,  and 
there  are  many  records  more  authentic. 

"The  problem  must  be  left  to  you,  my  boy,  to 
settle,  as  in  youth  it  was  left  to  me ;  and  I  write  this 
praying  that  God  will  treat  you  as  kindly. 

"Affectionately,  WEYLAND  FOLK." 

Louise  Folk  lay  on  her  pillow,  as  pale  as  a  moon 
under  a  floating  cloud.  She  did  not  move,  but  her 
clear  eyes  held  that  poor  thing,  her  husband,  in  the 
gaze  of  a  stranger  and  an  alien. 

"You  married  me — knowing  all  that?"  he  heard 
a  stranger's  voice  inquire. 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?     177 

"Louise — forgive!  Can't  you  see  how  it  was? 
The  chance  was  less  than  one  in  a  million,  my  fa- 
ther's letter  told  me.  You  were  so  a  part  of  my 
life,  I  couldn't  turn  my  eyes  away.  And  I  tried 
to  tell  you — don't  you  remember  that  day  I  gave  you 
a  chance  to  quit  me,  before  we  were  married  ?"  He 
said  this  appealingly,  coming  a  little  closer. 

"And  you  knew  it  then !"  she  said  sorrowfully. 

"You  were  like  the  breath  of  my  body — can't  you 
see,  dear?  I  was  a  white  man — as  white  as  you  or 
your  mother — up  to  the  time  that  cursed  letter  came 
and  tainted  me.  Can't  you  see?" 

"I  think  I  can,"  she  replied  quietly. 

Timidly  he  touched  her  hand,  but  the  fingers  lay 
cold  and  inflexible.  Her  eyes  were  turned  away — 
tired,  busy  eyes,  roving,  moving  among  the  figures 
on  the  wall-paper. 

"Louise!"  he  begged  her  softly.  "Louise,  look  at 
me.  What  is  there  different  in  me  from  what  there 
was — yesterday?  I'm  the  same  bone  and  body  and 
mind  that  has  held  you  and  loved  you,  and  that 
you've  understood  so  thoroughly  these  years.  Do 
you  think  you  could  bear  to  turn  from  me  now — 
for  an  imaginary  thing?" 

"Is  that  baby — out  there — an  imaginary  thing?" 
she  asked,  not  looking  at  him. 

And  Deegan  Folk  uttered  such  a  cry  that  her  two 
pitying  arms  went  out  suddenly  to  him  and  her 
mothering  tears  were  wet  on  his  cheek. 

"Dear  heart,  I  do  love  you,"  she  whispered.  "But 


178  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

there's  the  fact,  and  it  can't  mean  anything  but  dis- 
grace. I  can't  face  it.  I  can't  face  my  people,  my 
world,  my  friends,  with  this  horror — this  horror!" 

"We  can  go  somewhere,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Where?  What  would  we  do?  Who  would 
have  us  ?" 

"There's  Cuba  or  Jamaica,  where — colour — is  no 
disgrace.  It's  hard  to  say,  Louise.  But  there  are 
civilised  countries,  like  France,  where  they  do  not 
look  at  things  as  they  do  in  America." 

She  pushed  him  away  from  her  with  a  sudden 
fierce  strength. 

"Sit  over  there,"  the  voice  of  the  stranger  sud- 
denly commanded;  and  the  sensitive  man  with  the 
brand  of  a  jungle  breed  upon  him  quietly  complied. 
"Yes ;  we  might  as  well  face  the  future.  Jamaica, 
Cuba — or  we  might  go  to  Africa.  Ha !"  Her  laugh 
was  so  sharp  that  it  cut. 

"Don't,  Louise !  Try  to  consider — try  to  be  fair. 
We  must  work,  we  must  do  something;  but  we 
can't  accomplish  anything  in  bitterness." 

"I  know  it,  Deegan.  You  know  I'm  not  strong. 
The  doctors  wouldn't  even  let  me  talk  before  to-day. 
Oh,  I  ought  not  to  be  made  to  endure  this  thing!" 

"I'll  go  now.  We  can  talk  this  over  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

He  arose  and  stood  timidly  beside  her  bed.  He 
seemed  to  be  waiting  orders,  and  her  Caucasian  soul 
resented  it. 

"No,  Deegan.     Let's  settle  it  now.     I'm  really 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      179 

much  better  than  they  think.  I  want  it  settled." 
She  brushed  the  hair  nervously  back  from  her  fore- 
head and  her  speech  came  more  and  more  rapidly. 
"Well  go  away,  that's  the  best  idea.  People  won't 
know  who  we  are.  We'll  be  regarded  as  very  de- 
cent people  somewhere  where  this  sort  of  thing  is 
common.  I'm  sure  I'll  like  the  tropics — I've  always 
wanted  to  go.  It  will  be  an  easy  life  and  a  rest 
for  both  of  us.  We've  got  plenty  of  money — may- 
be you  can  go  in  for  politics  or  something  impor- 
tant. It  will  be  pleasant — pleasant — to  hide — to 
hide  with — this  thing."  And  her  eyes  were  again 
roving — roving  along  the  wall-paper. 

"Good  night,  Louise.  There's  nothing  to  settle  in 
a  hurry.  We  can  talk  it  over  again  soon." 

Deegan  walked  softly  toward  the  door.  The  wife 
half  rose,  and  dropped  her  arms  aimlessly  over  the 
coverlet. 

"Deegan !"  She  called  him  back.  "I  want  to  see 
— my  baby." 

The  man  himself  went  into  the  nursery  and,  walk- 
ing clumsily,  brought  the  little  bundle  in  his  arms. 
He  carried  her  baby  close  to  her,  and  she  surveyed 
it  eagerly,  but  did  not  touch  it. 

"Turn  on  more  lights — those  over  there." 

The  husband  obeyed,  and  the  wife,  her  lips  pale, 
her  eyes  unnatural,  sat  up  from  her  pillows  and 
looked  carefully  at  the  features  of  her  child  which 
its  father  held  before  her. 


I  So  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

From  the  child's  face  she  looked  up  at  the  father's 
Saxon  head. 

"Take  it  away/'  she  commanded  coldly. 


VIII 

Being  a  student  of  women,  Dr.  Norsig,  when  he 
came  and  saw  his  patient's  wild  condition  and  se- 
cretly realised  his  mistake,  revenged  himself  by 
scolding  the  nurse  for  permitting  a  scene  between 
husband  and  wife.  The  situation  was  a  problem 
of  pathology  rather  than  of  temperament,  for  her 
condition  was  feverish.  The  baby,  unaware  of  the 
disgrace  she  had  brought  into  the  house,  occupied 
a  crib  in  a  remote  room,  where  she  slept  peacefully. 
The  father  sat  still  as  a  stone  before  the  library 
fire;  but  the  mother's  talk  was  so  incoherent  and 
her  body  so  restless  that  the  physician  prescribed  an 
opiate  and  left  her  only  when  she  at  last  closed 
her  eyes  and  lay  still. 

Already  she  could  feel  the  poppy  moving  lan- 
guidly among  the  rivers  of  her  blood.  Her  human 
worries  seemed  to  dwindle  into  a  vague  philosophy. 
Pleasantly  she  imagined  canals  bordered  with  red 
and  yellow  flowers  that  nodded  her  away  from  the 
facts  of  life  and  turned  the  cold  horror  of  her  heart 
into  something  gorgeously  adventurous. 

Her  father,  when  he  was  alive,  had  talked  about 
the  pride  of  race.  But  what  was  race,  after  all? 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      181 

People  were  people — all  these  human  lumps,  vessels 
of  various  shapes  and  shades,  full  of  God's  spirit,  so 
they  told  you  Sundays  in  church.  Probably  it  was 
true  that  black  and  white  were  equally  precious  in 
the  scheme  of  things.  What  was  it  old  Omar  had 
said  about  the  Potter  thumping  his  wet  clay? 
You've  got  to  be  thumped  about  a  great  deal  to  live, 
whatever  your  shade.  The  Potter  had  designed  a 
black  child  for  her;  perhaps  she  would  find  the  dif- 
ference imaginary. 

Louise  Folk  opened  her  heavy  eyes  and  surveyed 
her  arm,  which  lay  on  the  coverlet  before  her.  In 
the  pale  night-light  it  appeared  like  a  column  of 
silver.  She  fell  more  soundly  into  dreams. 

She  dreamed  they  had  already  moved  to  Cuba. 
She  was  not  surprised  to  find  herself  standing,  in 
her  ball-gown  of  coral  with  the  silvery  lace  falling 
from  the  shoulders,  under  palms  beside  a  sea  that 
was  brighter  than  any  water  ought  to  be.  There 
was  something  warm  and  pleasant  against  her 
breast,  and,  looking  down,  she  saw  she  was  holding 
the  queer  little  repulsive  thing  they  called  her  baby. 
Somehow,  she  did  not  loathe  it  as  she  had  done. 
She  wondered. 

A  hideous  black  woman  with  a  flaming  handker- 
chief around  her  head  suddenly  approached  her 
from  behind  a  palm. 

"Tell  me,  please,"  she  asked  the  black  woman, — 
for  there  was  something  she  wanted  to  know  very 


1 82  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

much, — "is  it  possible  for  a  white  woman  to  love  a 
black  baby,  when  it's  her  own?" 

"White  woman!"  shrieked  the  negress,  with  a 
frightful  laugh.  "Do  you  think  you  can  be  a  white 
woman — with  that  in  your  arms?  Look!" 

Suddenly  the  negress  brought  a  mirror  from  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  and  Louise  looked.  She  was 
less  surprised  than  interested ;  for  the  face  she  saw 
in  the  mirror  was  quite  coal-black. 

She  awoke  with  a  cry,  and,  holding  up  her  arm, 
was  joyed  to  behold  it  white,  as  when  she  had  seen 
it  before  her  dream — white  as  silver,  moulded  with 
a  slender  delicacy  meant  to  solace  men  of  a  proud 
and  dominant  race. 

She  awoke  later  from  a  dreamless  sleep,  and 
there  was  a  curious  new  disturbance  in  the  air.  It 
was  as  if  some  one  had  touched  her  on  the  shoulder 
and  bade  her  go  at  once  to  a  task  of  inscrutable  im- 
portance. The  desk-watch  by  her  bed  pointed  to  a 
quarter  before  twelve.  She  had  never  heard  the 
house  so  still — only,  away  off  in  some  neighbouring 
street,  the  tiny  clock-clock  of  a  tired  cab-horse 
drudging  homeward.  Then  a  more  intimate  sound 
came  to  her,  a  thudding  click  downstairs  which  told 
her  some  one  had  opened  and  closed  the  front  door. 

Again  the  invisible  finger  touched  her  and  urged 
her  on.  Louise  Folk  arose  steadily  from  her  bed, 
and  advanced  with. the  fixed,  tragic  gaze  of  a  som- 
nambulist. Straight  into  the  hall  she  walked,  past 
the  library,  where  she  could  see,  in  her  dull,  drugged 


What  Became  of  Deegan  Folk?      183 

way,  that  Miss  Bowers  was  nodding  on  her  watch. 
Down  the  carpeted  hall  she  stole,  one  hand  before 
her,  groping. 

Something  called  her  to  the  window,  to  look  into 
the  street  and  to  know. 

The  shades  were  up  in  the  big  windows  of  the 
sitting-room,  which  was  pale  in  the  moonlight  from 
outside.  Parting  the  curtains,  she  stood,  as  the  im- 
pulse bade  her,  looking  down  into  the  street  where 
that  important  thing,  she  knew,  was  moving  for  her 
fate. 

The  big  black  limousine  belonging  to  her  husband 
was  drawn  up  against  the  curb.  Michael,  the  chauf- 
feur, stood  respectfully  opening  the  door;  and,  in 
contrast  to  the  servant's  military  precision,  came 
walking,  rather  stooped  and  very  humbly, — on  the 
flat  of  the  foot,  it  seemed  to  her  then, — a  tall  man 
carrying  a  little  bundle  against  the  lapel  of  his  over- 
coat. He  got  slowly  into  the  car,  and  Michael 
closed  the  door  with  his  customary  precision.  Still 
clasping  the  little  bundle  tenderly,  Louise  could  see 
the  tall  man  lean  forward  and  give  his  orders  to  the 
chauffeur. 

He  neither  looked  up  nor  back  as  the  car  wheeled 
its  way  down  the  slushy  street.  And  Louise  Folk 
knew  then  that  Deegan  Folk  would  never  return. 


YOU  CAN'T  GET  AWAY  FROM  YOUR 
GRANDFATHER 


FROM  the  vantage-point  of  the  bedroom  win- 
dow he  could  look  through  the  moisty  mist 
and  see  the  Colour  Scheme  recklessly  round- 
ing the  complex  curve  of  the  drive  leading  from  the 
handsome  Colonial  mansion  next  door.  It  was  a 
real-life  picture,  vividly  suggesting  one  of  those 
fabulously  expensive  automobile  advertisements. 
Her  cloak  was  a  delicate  sea-grey  blue ;  so  were  the 
wheels  of  her  whirling  grey  runabout ;  so  were  her 
eyes  (you  guessed)  ;  and  the  streaming  glory  of  her 
hair,  unhatted  against  the  damp  mists  of  morning, 
was  of  the  colour  superstitiously  supposed  to  at- 
tract white  horses. 

As  she  shuttled  through  the  white  gate  leading 
into  the  Yonkers  road,  the  tall  man  in  pajamas,  who 
stood  in  the  window  of  the  gloomy  mid-Victorian 
house,  laid  his  safety  razor  upon  the  onyx  shelf  of 
the  ugly  walnut  shaving-stand  which  he  had  pushed 
against  the  window  for  better  light. 

"Carrots,"  he  said,  addressing  the  vision  of  ter- 
rific loveliness  now  fast  disappearing  in  the  mist, 
"aren't  you  about  old  enough  to  grow  up  ?  Thirty- 

184 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     185 

four  last  February,  wasn't  it?  Next  thing,  you'll 
be  an  old  maid — no,  you  won't.  You'll  never  look 
it.  But  there's  nobody  to  deny  I'm  forty-one  and 
still  hanging  on.  And  I'll  be  waiting  for  you,  prob- 
ably, like  a  bump  on  a  log,  when  I'm  bald  and 
blind." 

Daniel  Plothier  again  took  up  his  safety  razor. 
He  noted  with  morbid  intensity  those  two  deep  lines 
from  the  corners  of  his  nose  to  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  Yes,  the  resemblance  was  growing.  In  five 
years  his  features  would  be  a  faithful  modern  du- 
plicate of  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather,  Cromwell 
B.  Plothier,  which  hung  down  in  the  dining-room 
between  two  Rogers  groups.  Cromwell  B.  had  not 
married  until  he  was  fifty,  Daniel  reflected  with 
a  groan.  He  had  never  done  anything  hurried  or 
pleasant  in  all  his  long  and  dismal  life,  during  which 
he  had  founded  the  eminent  hymn-book  publishing 
firm  of  Plothier  and  Colby,  built  the  house  with 
doors  and  windows  suggestive  of  mortuary  chapels, 
and  begotten  Daniel's  father.  So  here  stood  Daniel, 
shaving  dismally  on  a  dull  April  morning. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  life?"  he  asked  his 
shaving-glass.  "I'm  the  heir  to  a  lot  of  second- 
hand goods  I  can't  use  and  don't  want  to  use.  I've 
inherited  the  Plothier  business,  the  Plothier  house, 
and  the  Plothier  face.  By  George,  I  hate  'em  all !" 

Disloyal  thought,  largely  blamable  to  the  unsea- 
sonable weather,  which  had  brought  a  twinge  of 
Plothier  rheumatism  to  Daniel's  right  knee.  Other 


i86  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

things  conspired  to  despair.  The  flame-topped  girl 
had  wounded  him  fiercely  a  fortnight  ago.  She  had 
taken  it  upon  herself  to  analyse  his  perfectly  reliable 
four-cylinder  car  in  which  he  daily  plied  between 
New  York  and  Yonkers.  She  had  called  it  a  ferry- 
boat! 

"It  chugs/'  she  said  critically,  setting  the  foot- 
brake  in  her  own  speedy  little  monster. 

"It's  reliable,"  he  answered  shortly.  He  realised 
that  his  temperament,  not  his  motor,  was  under  fire. 

"Is  everything  that  chugs  reliable  ?"  she  retorted. 
And  the  cannonade  that  followed  degenerated  into 
a  massacre  which  she  had  brutally  ended  with  a 
mangling  blow  wherein  she  had  referred  to  his  ve- 
hicle as  a  "wheezer"  and  a  "musical  bath-tub."  She 
had  flown  on  an  expletive  for  which  she  would  be 
sorry,  he  knew.  Yet  it  broke  another  of  the  numer- 
ous engagements  which  had  linked  them  spasmodi- 
cally for  fifteen  years. 

Every  man  deserves  a  wife,  Daniel  told  himself 
that  morning,  as  he  methodically  laid  away  his 
shaving  things  and  began  to  dress.  Here  was  a 
stalemate.  Barbara  Colby  had  become  habitual  to 
him;  in  fact,  he  had  never  seriously  considered  any 
other  woman.  Yet  the  ghost  of  his  Calvinist  grand- 
father continued  to  do  him  hurt  in  the  eyes  of  this 
woman  of  a  more  graceful  stock. 

"It's  certainly  time  I  had  a  family,"  his  thoughts 
continued  to  repeat,  as  he  fastened  a  somewhat  friv- 
olous necktie  beneath  his  stern  and  kindly  face. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     187 

"Daniel !"  came  a  clarion  call  from  the  hallway. 
"Five  minutes  late  for  breakfast!" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Fanny — in  a  minute."  He  buttoned 
his  neat  coat  and  descended  the  steep  black-walnut 
stairs  with  the  bronze  gas-bearing  Diana  on  the 
newel-post.  Grandfather  Plothier  had  gone  in  heav- 
ily for  the  bombastic  in  art,  as  a  peep  into  the  par- 
lour revealed;  for  there  stood  "The  Little  Flower 
Girl"  in  deathly  marble  upon  a  plush  pedestal  under 
the  lurid  oil  painting  of  a  flabby  John  the  Baptist 
confronting  Herodias,  ox-eyed  and  pinky-cheeked. 
Most  of  the  furniture  in  this  room  suggested  the 
funeral-urn  somewhere  in  its  pattern,  and  the  lofty 
mantel  was  like  the  fagade  of  some  horrific  Egyp- 
tian tomb.  The  dining-room  was  danker  still,  and 
even  the  odour  of  hot  coffee  added  small  comfort 
to  the  presence  of  Grandfather  Plothier  glowering 
from  his  frame. 

Aunt  Fanny  Troutt,  the  square-cut,  elderly  wom- 
an at  the  end  of  the  table,  turned  upon  Daniel  a 
smile  which  denoted  neither  a  cheerful  mind  nor 
a  sense  of  humour.  She  wore  her  expression  mere- 
ly as  she  wore  the  large  coral  swastika  on  her  full, 
silken  breast — as  a  sign  of  a  certain  mental  culture. 
Aunt  Fanny  was  not  a  Plothier.  She  was  the  widow 
of  Daniel's  Uncle  Seth,  and  had  come  to  him  rather 
oddly  among  his  inheritances. 

There  was  a  blue  stain  across  her  smooth,  plump 
forefinger  as  she  poured  Daniel's  coffee-cup  half 


1 88  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

full,  a  mannerism  of  hers  which  Daniel  had  always 
resented. 

"Ink,"  she  said  absently,  examining  the  guilty 
stain.  "I've  almost  completed  my  paper,  'The 
Status  of  the  Childless  Individual/  for  the  Zenith's 
Wednesday.  Daniel,  can't  you  have  your  stenogra- 
pher type  it  for  me?" 

"Guess  so,"  he  answered  moodily  into  his  plate, 
then  suddenly  taking  interest.  "What  is  the  status 
of  the  childless  individual?" 

"It  depends  on  the  individual,"  she  replied,  drop- 
ping into  a  barytone  note  effective  in  public  dis- 
course. "Saleeby,  in  his  'Parenthood  and  Race  Cul- 
ture/ points  out  definitely  the  peril  of  over-produc- 
tion among  the  lower  orders  of  mankind,  as  well  as 
the  danger  of  under-production  among  the  higher 
'  orders.  The  responsibility  of  parenthood  to  a  man 
of  blameless  antecedents " 

"Eugenics!"  growled  Daniel,  gulping  coffee. 

"You  needn't  scoff,  Daniel.  There  are  duties 
in  our  daily  lives " 

"Why  flounder  around  with  a  lot  of  eugenics, 
Aunt  Fanny  ?  Why  don't  you  say  I  ought  to  get 
married  and  raise  a  family?" 

"Well,  I  do." 

"And  the  little  matter  of  finding  a  wife  for  me?" 
he  inquired,  with  artificial  gentleness. 

"There's  Barbara  Colby;  it  seems  to  be  about 
time " 

"I'm  never  going  to  marry."     His  strong  jaws 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     189 

came  together  with  a  snap.  "If  you  can  suggest 
some  way  of  my  producing  an  heir  without  getting 
married,  let  me  know.  Perhaps  there's  a  chapter  on 
that  in  your  eugenics  book/' 

All  the  way  into  New  York  the  gears  of  his  old- 
fashioned  car  sang  accusingly:  "Ought  to  raise  a 
family !  Ought  to  raise  a  family !" 

"I'll  never  marry,"  he  answered  that  grating 
voice.  Since  his  college  days  he  had  idly  visioned 
the  morning  when  a  white-clad  nurse  should  de- 
scend his  stairs  and  announce:  "It's  a  boy!" 

"Ought  to  raise  a  family !"  shrieked  the  motor. 

At  I25th  Street  he  stopped  his  car  and  sat  a 
while  in  thought.  "There  is  a  way,"  he  said  sud- 
denly, and  turned  the  nose  of  his  faithful  steed  to- 
ward the  lower  West  Side. 


ii 

Six  weeks  later  at  breakfast,  Daniel  suddenly 
made  the  announcement : 

"I'm  going  to  bring  my  son  home  to-night." 

"Daniel."    Aunt  Fanny  sat  frozen. 

"My  son,"  he  repeated  smoothly.  "Henry  An- 
derson Plothier  is  his  full  name.  He's  now  nine 
and  a  half  years  old." 

"My  poor  Daniel !"  Her  prominent  brown  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  this? 
What  would' your  poor  mother  say?  When  did  it 
happen  ?" 


190  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"About  six  weeks  ago,"  announced  the  unrepent- 
ant nephew. 

"Six  weeks !    You  said  the  boy  was  nine !" 

Callously  Daniel  smiled,  fishing  deep  into  an  in- 
side pocket  He  laid  a  thrice-folded  document  dra- 
matically beside  her  plate. 

"Petition  in  Adoption/'  she  read. 

Nervously  unfolding  the  form,  she  learned  what 
one  Daniel  N.  Plothier,  of  the  city  of  Yonkers, 
State  of  New  York,  had  done  without  her  knowl- 
edge in  aforesaid  city  and  State :  how  he  had  duly 
and  legally  applied  before  the  Probate  Court  of  the 
city,  County,  and  State  of  New  York,  and  there  pe- 
titioned for  full  right  to  adopt  and  confer  his  name 
upon  Henry  Anderson,  a  minor  orphan  in  charge  of 
the  Shelter  for  the  Innocents,  situate  in  the  city, 
County,  and  State  of  New  York. 

"It  says  here  you've  applied "  Aunt  Fanny 

began,  laying  down  the  paper. 

"It  was  granted  yesterday,"  replied  Daniel. 

"Oh,  Dan'l,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  he  said  simply.  "So  why 
shouldn't  I  make  the  most  of  it  and  start  a  family 
now?" 

"Is  he  a  nice  boy?" 

"Very,"  replied  Daniel.  "He  seems  to  have  extra 
good  manners  for  a  boy  picked  out  of  an  asylum." 

"And  his  parents?" 

"They're  both  dead.  Mrs.  Sulley,  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  place,  tells  me  they  were  good,  re- 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     191 

ligious  Scotch  Presbyterians  who  both  died  in  the 

same  week — typhoid.     Trust  me,  I've  looked  into 

that/' 

"Have  you  looked  into  the  eugenics  of " 

But  Mr.  Plothier  had  already  escaped  through  the 

oval  walnut  front  door. 

in 

The  Shelter  for  the  Innocents,  gift  of  a  sectarian 
donor  a  generation  ago,  stood,  like  the  poor  relation 
of  a  large  family  of  public  institutions,  within  peep- 
ing distance  of  the  truck-resounding  Tenth  Avenue. 
The  hallways  inside  reflected  the  incompetent  per- 
sonality of  Mrs.  Sulley,  the  matron,  who  slouched 
about  like  a  species  of  human  kangaroo,  prodig- 
iously broad  of  hip  and  miraculously  small  of  face. 
Mrs.  Sulley,  like  her  figure,  was  a  thing  of  con- 
fusion, confounded  by  an  air  of  splendid  dignity. 
During  her  eighteen  years  of  incumbency  she  had 
never  been  known  to  get  anything  exactly  right.  It 
had  been  so  long  her  custom,  at  morning  chapel,  to 
indicate  Hymn  48,  and  to  insist  upon  playing  the 
tune  of  Hymn  101,  that  the  error  ceased  to  tickle 
the  crude,  youthful  humour  of  the  asylum. 

"Tom,"  she  used  to  ask  of  the  boy  Henry  An- 
derson, "what  is  a  promontory?" 

"My  name's  Henry,"  the  boy  would  always 
prompt. 

"So  it  is !    What  is  a  promontory,  Henry?" 


192  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"A  promontory  is  a  high  strip  of  land  extending 
from  the  coast-line  into  the  ocean/' 

Mrs.  Sulley  would  look  shamelessly  into  the  back 
of  the  geography  to  verify  the  definition  before  say- 
ing severely : 

"Wrong,  Tom!  A  strip  of  land  extending  into 
the  sea.  We  should  learn  to  be  exact." 

Mrs.  Sulley  held  her  position  through  relationship 
to  the  oldest  of  the  trustees  of  the  asylum.  The 
trustees  were  all  old  men. 

It  was  on  a  mild,  dry  morning  in  early  June  that 
Henry  Anderson  was  summoned  to  the  ugly  plush 
reception-room  on  the  second  floor.  A  blond,  keen- 
faced  boy,  tall  for  his  age,  he  wore  with  some  grace 
the  misfit  clothes  of  charity.  Even  the  fact  that 
his  trousers  hung  close  to  his  shins  and  his  sleeves 
edged  his  finger-nails  did  not  entirely  detract  from 
his  good  looks.  The  institution,  in  its  attempt  to 
make  an  orphan  of  Henry,  had  not  entirely  suc- 
ceeded. 

Down  Tenth  Avenue,  Henry  could  see  half  a 
dozen  dirty,  noisy  boys  bouncing  a  length  of  rubber 
hose  with  a  broom-handle,  in  a  fascinating  game  of 
"piggy."  They  used  to  play  piggy  in  New  Ro- 
chelle.  Henry  remembered.  They  never  played 
anything  here  worth  playing ;  and  when  their  imagi- 
nations craved  excitement  they  were  given  the  Rollo 
Books  to  read.  How  Henry  detested  Rollo ! 

"Your  new  papa,   Mr.   Lothier,   has   come   for. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     193 

you,"  Mrs.  Sulley  announced,  floundering  into  the 
room  carrying  a  new  grey  hat,  boy's  size. 

"Mr.  Plothier,"  corrected  Henry  patiently. 

"So  it  is  I"  agreed  Mrs.  Sulley.  "Do  you  like  the 
gentleman,  Tommy?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  announced  Henry,  for  once  over- 
looking the  mistake  in  his  name.  "I  think  he's 
fine." 

"Don't  you  want  to  say  good-bye  to  your  little 
playmates  before  you  go?"  Her  tone  was  cloying. 

"Oh,  not  so  awful,"  said  Henry,  without  enthu- 
siasm. His  only  genuine  companion  in  the  institu- 
tion had  been  Eddie  Cray,  who  had  been  adopted 
by  a  family  in  New  Rochelle. 

"Well,  then,  come  on.    Your  papa's  waiting." 

Out  in  the  hall  stood  the  tall,  gentlemanly  Daniel 
Plothier,  with  apparent  intentness  studying  the 
framed  photographs  representing  little  girls  in  hor- 
rid plaids  occupying  rustic  benches,  and  all  duly 
labelled  "Little  Orphans  of  the  Late  War." 

Plothier  advanced  to  meet  the  child. 

"Well,  my  boy !"  said  he  heartily,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

Do  as  he  could,  Henry  could  not  move  forward 
or  raise  his  arm. 

"Come  on,"  smiled  his  new  father.  "We'll  take 
a  spin  in  our  car  and  see  the  folks." 

"All  right,"  said  Henry,  suddenly  looking  up 
without  fear  and  slipping  his  small  hand  into  the  big 
glove. 


194  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

The  drive  out  to  Yonkers  was  altogether  a  prog- 
ress of  silent  observation.  To  the  long-imprisoned 
boy,  this  flight  with  only  a  single  guardian  to  watch 
over  him  was  a  sort  of  freedom  de  luxe. 

"Say,  Mr. "  he  began  reticently,  at  last 

emerging  from  the  silence. 

"You  can  call  me  Dad,  if  you  like,"  said  Mr. 
Plothier  kindly. 

"I  will — pretty  soon,"  he  began.  "But  say — is 
Yonkers  the  other  side  of  New  Rochelle?" 

"Why,  Henry!  Where's  your  geography?"  en- 
quired Daniel,  feigning  shocked  surprise. 

"Huh!  We  never  got  beyond  promontories  in 
geography." 

"What  do  you  know  about  New  Rochelle?" 

"That's  where  Kickapoo  Charlie  lives — Eddie 
Cray's  his  real  name.  He  calls  me  Pawnee  and  I 
call  him  Kick.  Those  are  our  Indian  names." 

"I  see!" 

"Kick's  a  fine  feller.  He  was  my  partner  till 
they  took  him  to  New  Rochelle.  They  let  me  visit 
him  there  once.  Say,  it  was  great !" 

Plothier  drove  on  in  silence  for  some  time,  and 
when  he  looked  round  he  caught  Henry's  blue,  in- 
telligent gaze  taking  him  in  with  a  look  that  mingled 
awe,  mischief,  admiration,  and  reticence. 

"Is  this  considered  a  very  fine  auto?"  asked 
Henry,  by  way  of  banishing  embarrassment.  The 
very  question,  less  amiably  put,  had  arisen  between 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      195 

Mr.  Daniel  Plothier  and  Miss  Barbara  Colby  in  a 
discussion  now  memorable. 

"It's  considered  a  very  reliable  family  car,  Henry. 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  thought  it  must  be  pretty  fine,  because  it  isn't 
so  very  big/'  replied  Henry  with  diplomacy.  "I  bet 
it  can  race  1" 

"Don't  get  your  hopes  too  high,"  cautioned  the 
new-found  parent.  "The  best  cars  are  not  made  for 
racing  nowadays." 

"Oh!"  The  boy's  tone  was  submissively  de- 
spondent. 

Behind  the  concealing  folds  of  the  parlour  cur- 
tains, Aunt  Fanny  peeped  out,  and  beheld  Daniel 
conveying  the  boy  down  the  gravel  path.  The  front 
door  opened,  and  the  adopted  heir  of  the  house  of 
Plothier  was  pushed  into  the  parlour.  He  had  for- 
gotten to  remove  his  new  grey  hat  until  he  stood 
under  the  old  lady's  chilly  gaze,  when  it  came  off 
with  a  nervous  jerk. 

"So  this  is  Henry!"  she  exclaimed,  assuming  a 
smile. 

"Yes,  ma'am!"  Henry  had  been  taught  to  be 
especially  polite  to  old  ladies. 

"This  is  your  Aunt  Fanny,  Henry,"  Daniel  Plo- 
thier explained. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  the  boy,  his  gaze 
shyly  seraphic. 

"Do  you  like  your  new  home,  Henry?"  enquired 
Aunt  Fanny,  folding  her  book  over  one  fat  wrist. 


196  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Oh,  very  much,  thank  you!"  He  had  seen  noth- 
ing further  than  the  front  door. 

"I  hope  we'll  like  each  other,"  she  suggested,  her 
smile  tightening  to  a  hard  knot. 

"I  hope  so,  too/'  Henry  admitted;  "because,  if  I 
ain't  suitable,  you  can't  send  me  back.  I'm  'dopted 
now." 

At  supper  Henry  sought  to  make  his  behaviour 
the  ideal  of  modest  grace,  but  the  fact  that  Aunt 
Fanny's  critical  smile  was  upon  him  greatly  marred 
his  accuracy.  Once  he  dropped  a  potato  in  his  lap, 
and  was  panic-stricken  under  those  prying  eyes. 

"One  takes  so  many  chances,"  sighed  Aunt 
Fanny. 

"Let's  reserve  these  eugenic  lectures  for  Wednes- 
day afternoon,"  said  Daniel. 

"Yes,  you  can  joke,"  she  warned  him;  "but  the 

eugenics  of  a  case  like  this "  She  cast  on  him 

a  look  of  mystery. 

"What's*  eugenics?"  asked  Henry  suddenly,  re- 
placing the  dropped  potato  to  his  plate. 

"It's  about  good  boys  and  bad  boys,"  said  Aunt 
Fanny  severely;  then,  turning  to  the  maid,  "Ger- 
trude, we  will  have  our  coffee  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

Henry  was  deposited  in  the  library  while  the 
adults  went  into  conference  in  the  parlour.  The  sur- 
roundings awed  him,  and  his  behaviour  was  mouse- 
like; yet  every  article  he  touched  seemed  bent  on 
making  some  shocking  noise.  On  a  shelf  above  the 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      197 

table  he  beheld  a  gigantic  volume  embossed  mightily 
in  gilt  with  the  legend  "Glories  of  Egypt."  He  tip- 
toed to  a  rocking-chair,  dragged  the  chair  to  a  point 
below  the  shelf,  mounted  the  teetering  support,  and 
drew  the  book  toward  him.  It  was  heavier  than  he 
had  anticipated.  The  chair  began  to  rock,  and  ere 
he  realised  his  peril  the  book  had  avalanched  to  the 
floor,  striking  a  brass  coal-scuttle  amid  fearful  roar- 
ings. Covered  with  confusion,  he  lifted  it  hastily, 
and  knocked  over  a  pair  of  tongs. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  came  Aunt  Fanny's  bary- 
tone voice  from  the  parlour. 

"I  was  just  lookin'  at  the  book  about  Cuba/'  an- 
swered the  boy,  approaching  the  parlour  door  with 
catlike  tread,  for  fear  some  hostile  article  of  furni- 
ture would  rise  and  smite  him. 

"Well,  don't  touch  anything  until  I  give  you  per- 
mission," she  said  coldly. 

"Yes,  ma'am !"    He  tiptoed  back. 

"He  has  rather  nice  manners,  considering  where 
he  came  from,"  said  Daniel. 

"I'm  afraid  he'll  be  an  awful  risk,"  moaned  Aunt 
Fanny,  as  she  crept  rheumatically  to  bed. 

Daniel  led  the  way  and  showed  Henry  his  room — 
the  little  west  room,  which  had  been  left  unchanged 
since  he  himself  had  occupied  it.  The  bed  was  of 
black  walnut,  an  angular  group  of  daisies  cut  in  the 
headboard,  in  the  popular  "groove-work"  of  its 
generation. 


198  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"This  was  my  room  when  I  was  a  boy/'  Daniel 
explained.    "And  it  will  be  yours  now." 
"Gee !"  said  Henry,  with  awe. 
'Yes — son.    And  don't  forget  to  say  your  pray- 


ers." 


"No,  sir/' 

"Say  'No,  Dad!'" 

"No,  Dad!" 

"Good  night,  son." 

"Good  night." 

Above  the  bed  was  a  large  steel  engraving  show- 
ing the  late  Moses  of  Egypt  being  first  seen  by  the 
daughter  of  Pharaoh  amid  the  historic  rushes. 
Henry  remembered  the  story.  Moses,  too,  was  an 
adopted  son.  He  wondered  how  long  it  took  him  to 
get  used  to  Pharaoh's  aunt. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  room  was  a  cabinet  filled 
with  toys  of  a  past  generation — a  stationary  steam- 
engine,  much  dented,  a  baseball  of  an  antiquated 
make,  two  pairs  of  skates,  a  Noah's  Ark,  a  set  of 
nine-pins,  innumerable  small  articles.  Henry  tried 
to  open  the  door  to  this  treasury.  It  was  securely 
locked  and  the  key  concealed.  Aunt  Fanny,  of 
course ! 

A  new  night-shirt  lay  on  the  bed,  and  Henry  had 
soon  wriggled  himself  into  it.  He  was  thinking 
reluctantly  about  his  prayers,  when  a  shelf  of  books 
by  the  window  attracted  his  attention.  He  exam- 
ined them  briefly  before  turning  out  the  light. 

"Rollo  Books!"   he  murmured  dismally,   as  he 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      199 

crept  prayerless  under  cover  and  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall. 


IV 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one  Daniel  had  come  home, 
a  conventionally  clad,  pedantic  sophomore,  from 
the  sectarian  college  of  which  his  grandfather  was 
a  trustee.  Barbara,  a  lovely,  flame-topped  tomboy, 
had  looked  him  over,  awed  but  rather  attracted  by 
his  majestic  comeliness.  But  when  he  had  taken 
her  for  a  mighty  academic  walk  through  the  pear 
orchard,  displaying  himself  splendidly  in  quotations 
from  Horace,  Barbara  had  paid  him  the  passing 
tribute  of  a  giggle. 

"Is  that  all  they  teach  you  at  your  old  school  ?" 
she  jeered. 

"Not  school — college,"  he  corrected  her  patiently. 

"Hector  Smith's  gone  to  Yale  and  expects  to 
make  the  crew,"  she  said,  applying  harsher  irritant. 

"Hector  Smith  will  never  set  the  Thames  on  fire," 
replied  the  grand  person. 

"Square-Toes!"  laughed  Barbara,  facing  him 
with  pert  suddenness.  And  Daniel  was  splendidly 
tempted. 

"Carrots !"  said  he.  And,  before  he  realised  his 
enormity,  he  had  seized  her  and  planted  a  kiss  ac- 
curately upon  the  small  target  of  her  mouth.  There ! 
He  had  proved  his  manhood.  But  at  what  a  cost! 

Two  years  later  Daniel,  a  trifle  less  stiff  in  man- . 


2OO  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

ner  and  a  shade  more  worldly,  returned  from  col- 
lege with  his  master's  degree  in  his  pocket  and  in  his 
heart  a  determination  to  marry  Barbara  Colby.  It 
was  his  grandfather's  stubbornness  that  set  his  eyes 
constantly  for  four  years  more  toward  the  Colbys' 
driveway,  which,  to  his  jealous  imagination,  seemed 
to  swarm  with  sporting  vehicles,  driven  by  favoured 
graduates  of  America's  more  princely  colleges. 
Daniel  called  when  he  could,  and  Barbara  was  al- 
ways kind — when  she  was  at  home.  Her  bantering 
was  less  crass  than  on  the  day  when  she  had  called 
him  "Square-Toes,"  but  it  seemed  always  to  be 
there,  just  the  same.  Also  she  chattered  in  the 
idiom  of  a  mysterious  social  dialect  which  seemed 
to  sunder  them  by  polar  leagues. 

At  last  he  caught  her — in  flight,  as  it  were,  be- 
tween Bar  Harbour  and  Fifth  Avenue.  She  was  at 
home  for  one  of  her  rare  weeks,  preparing  another 
expedition  into  Daniel's  unknown.  Again  Daniel 
sauntered  with  her  in  the  pear  orchard.  She  seemed 
a  great  deal  more  dignified  than  on  the  former  oc- 
casion, he  a  great  deal  less  so.  As  a  concession  to 
her  worldliness  he  had  acquired  the  cigarette  habit, 
and  the  white  tube  seemed  shockingly  inappropriate 
to  his  rather  ministerial  face. 

"Why?"  he  asked  her. 

"We  can't  get  away  from  our  grandfathers, 
Dan,"  she  said ;  but  her  look  was  no  longer  scorn- 
ful. "From  mine  I  got  sporting  blood ;  yours  gave 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      201 

you  all  sorts  of  good  qualities.  But  they  won't  mix 
— I'm  sure  they  won't." 

"But  I  can  learn,  Bab  dear.  I  can !  Don't  I  take 
my  Scotch  whiskey  with  the  rest?  And  I'm  going 
to  a  dancing  academy." 

"Darling  old  Dan!"  she  laughed.  "I  half  love 
you — I  do!  But  don't  let's  be  impossible!" 

And  this  morning  she  walked  abroad,  the  girl 
who  never  grew  up,  a  lovely,  fashionable,  youthful 
spinster.  At  the  corner  beyond  the  Plothier  place 
she  stopped  and  whistled  to  Yam,  her  Chow;  and 
as  she  did  so  she  came  face  to  face  with  Daniel 
Plothier. 

Her  first  subconscious  thought  was,  "How  happy 
he  looks!"  Then  she  noticed,  with  a  strange  dis- 
turbance of  her  heart,  that  he  was  walking  and 
talking  with  a  small  boy  in  a  surprisingly  new  suit 
of  clothes;  and  there  was  something  intensely  pa- 
rental in  the  manner  of  Daniel  Plothier. 

"Good  morning,  Square-Toes!"  she  could  not 
refrain,  mocking  his  contentment. 

"Good  morning,  Carrots !"  It  was  many  months 
since  he  had  exchanged  this  coin  with  her. 

Barbara  cast  her  sea-grey  eyes  like  a  spell  upon 
the  boy,  who  forgot  his  manners  and  stood  rooted 
to  the  walk,  stricken  beyond  embarrassment.  He 
thought  he  had  never  before  viewed  so  beautiful  a 
lady. 

"Miss  Colby,"  Daniel  was  saying,  with  a  return 


2O2  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

to  the  adopted-parental  manner,  "allow  me  to  pre- 
sent my  son,  Henry." 

"Oh!"  A  pause  in  which  she  turned  those  sea- 
grey  lights  full  upon  the  man.  "I  thought  I  knew 
your  whole  family." 

"I  have  just  adopted  this  boy,"  replied  Daniel, 
without  flinching. 

"Oh!"— again.  "How  stupid  of  me!  Of 
course."  She  wore  nothing  merrier  than  a  lip- 
smile. 

"I've  decided  to  start  a  family,  you  see,"  he  went 
on  inexorably.  "It's  about  time,  don't  you  think?" 

"Never  too  soon,  I'm  sure,"  she  continued  pleas- 
antly. "How  do  you  do,  Henry?"  She  thrilled 
his  fingers  with  a  handshake.  "I  hope  you'll  like 
our  neighbourhood." 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  will!"  He  was  again  im- 
mersed in  magic. 

"Well,  we'll  see  what  we  can  stir  up,  Henry,"  she 
went  on.  "Do  you  let  him  ride  in  modern  vehicles, 
Dan?" 

"When  the  driver  is  competent." 

'Tm  going  to  town  this  afternoon,"  she  said,  with 
enthusiasm.  "Can't  he  come?" 

And  so  it  was  promised.  In  the  low,  rakish  grey 
car  with  the  baby  blue  wheels  Henry  got  his  first 
taste  of  real  life.  Suspended  he  sat  in  an  avalanche 
of  dizzy  speed,  piloted  by  an  angelic  chauffeur  in  a 
blue  coat  to  match  those  flying  wheels. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      203 

"Do  you  like  to  go  fast?"  she  asked,  after  they 
had  saucily  circled  two  limousines. 

"Gee!  I  could  live  on  it!" 

"Bully !    Well  have  some  great  fun  together." 

"I  wish  Mr.  Plothier — Dad — would  let  me  drive 
his." 

"Do  you?"  she  smiled.  "Oh,  look!  There's 
Andy  Folk's  new  six.  He  thinks  he's  smart.  Now, 
Henry,  give  that  little  oil-pump  a  few  jigs.  That's 
enough." 

She  was  skilfully  manipulating  a  forest  of  brassy 
levers,  and  the  grey  car  was  shooting  forward  as 
if  it  would  rise  aeroplane-like  on  its  enormous  mud- 
guards. Henry  held  his  new  hat  between  his  knees 
and  lowered  his  head  to  meet  the  blasts.  Even  in 
that  delirium  of  locomotion,  he  felt  the  flutter  of 
her  adorable  blue  cloak  against  his  sleeve.  The 
distance  between  the  two  machines  inched  shorter 
and  shorter.  Now  the  grey  car  was  nosing  close 
to  its  rival.  Henry  could  feel  in  his  face  the  sting 
of  gravel  from  the  rear  wheels  of  the  machine 
ahead — a  pleasant  pain,  like  the  tang  of  a  divine 
elixir.  And  now  they  were  hood  to  hood,  seeming 
to  stand  still  in  a  hurricane.  And  now  the  darker 
car  appeared  to  fade  behind  into  the  landscape ;  and 
when  Henry  at  last  looked  round,  the  presumptuous 
Andy  Polk  was  wheeling,  defeated,  into  a  tributary 
road. 

"Well,  how's  that?"  she  enquired,  slowing  to 
moderation. 


204  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Oh,  it  was  grand,  Miss — Miss  Carrots."  He 
swallowed  a  lump  of  embarrassment. 

"That's  right,  Henry;  you  call  me  Carrots — not 
before  people,  but  just  between  you  and  me.  And 
what  shall  I  call  you?" 

"I  tell  you — Miss  Carrots.  Do  you  want  to  know 
my  Indian  name?" 

"That's  the  very  one  to  know!"  she  responded 
with  enthusiasm. 

"Well "  he  giggled  shyly.  "My  Indian 

name's  Pawnee  Bill,  and  Eddie  Cray's  is  Kickapoo 
Charlie." 

"I  know — you  got  it  out  of  a  book."  She  had 
the  wisdom  peculiar  to  goddesses. 

"Sure!  'Pawnee  Bill's  Escape/  It  was  some 
book." 

"That's  good.  Now  we  know  our  real  names. 
You'll  be  Pawnee  and  I'll  be  Carrots.  I  only  allow 
my  chums  to  call  me  that." 

"Is  Mr.  Plo— Dad— your  chum?" 

"He's  a  very  old  friend,"  she  admitted.  "But 
you  mustn't  call  him  Square-Toes,  as  I  do." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  he's  your  legal  parent;  it  wouldn't  be 
respectful.  It  doesn't  matter  what  you  call  me,  be- 
cause I'm  only  a  spinster." 

He  was  about  to  enquire  into  the  nature  of  spins- 
terhood;  but  they  were  now  weaving  the  irregular 
asphalt  of  upper  Broadway,  and  Miss  Colby  was 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      205 

slowing  down  sedately  to  the  semaphoric  hand  of 
the  traffic  policeman. 

"This  would  make  a  swell  race!"  Henry  com- 
mented, observing  the  flock  of  snorting  dragons 
gathered  about. 

"I  thought  so  once/'  she  agreed.  "Until  this  very 
policeman  arrested  me  for  speeding." 

Arrested !  He  stared  at  her  with  a  wild  surmise. 
So  the  beautiful  Carrots  had  been  in  jail!  It  must 
have  been  a  pretty  nice  sort  of  prison  to  harbour 
such  a  woman,  he  thought,  and  arrest  must  surely 
be  an  honour  after  that. 

So  the  afternoon  passed  in  adventure  and  heart- 
confidence  and  divine  companionship,  until  at  last 
Henry  was  let  down  before  the  Plothier  lawn. 

"Take  care  or  you'll  make  a  speed  maniac  of  my 
son!"  cautioned  Daniel,  as  the  boy  went  dreamily 
up  the  walk  to  the  house. 

"The  damage  is  done,  Daniel,"  she  laughed  back 
at  him,  shuttling  her  car  neatly  between  the  gate- 
posts leading  to  the  Colby  garage. 

And  that  night  Henry  demanded  pen  and  paper, 
and  wrote : 


Dear  Kick: 

How  are  you  in  New  Rochelle?  We  are  all  well. 
I  am  adopted  in  a  Family  in  Yonkers.  My  name 
is  now  Henry  Anderson  Plothier.  My  Dad  is  fine. 
My  Ant  Fanny  is  all  right.  But  there  lives  next 
door  a  lady  who  is  great  Her  name  is  Carrots, 


2o6  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

and  she  has  got  a  some  class  ottomobile.  Whizz  it 
can  go.  Maybe  she  will  let  me  lern  it  or  I  can  use 
Dads. 

Well  I  must  close.  Yours  truly, 

PAWNEY. 


Henry  was  now  a  day  scholar  at  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Bowie's  Academy  for  Young  Men ;  but,  to-day  be- 
ing Saturday,  he  was  in  peonage  to  Aunt  Fanny  in 
the  capacity  of  domestic  slave.  The  call  of  the  wild 
was  strong  within  him  that  morning.  A  football 
squad  was  forming  on  the  gridiron  near  the  school ; 
everybody  seemed  to  be  going  somewhere;  his  ce- 
lestial chum,  Miss  Carrots,  had  stopped  her  grey 
car  near  the  gate  and  signalled  him  to  come  on,  but 
he  had  shaken  his  head  at  the  window. 

"Do  you  know  how  to  polish  chandeliers?''  en- 
quired his  keeper,  entering,  a  roll  of  clean  dish 
towelling  in  her  hand. 

"Nope;  I  never  did  know  how."  He  strove  to 
conceal  his  distaste,  and  made  a  mess  of  it. 

"Don't  say  'Nope.' '  She  smiled  fiercely.  "Say 
'No,  Aunt  Fanny,'  when  addressing  your  elders." 

"Must  I  say  'No,  Aunt  Fanny,'  to  Mr.  Plothier 
too?"  If  the  question  contained  sarcasm,  it  was 
well  masked. 

"Don't  be  stupid.  Now  get  up  on  the  step-ladder 
and  unhook  all  the  pendants  from  the  chandelier." 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      207 

This  vast  ornament,  in"  elaborate  cut-glass  of 
French  design,  hung  from  a  painted  stucco  medal- 
lion in  the  exact  centre  of  the  drawing-room  ceil- 
ing. As  a  work  of  art  it  was  far  and  away  the 
most  satisfactory  object  in  the  house  of  Plothier; 
but  from  the  utilitarian  viewpoint  of  the  housemaid 
it  was  a  pest.  For  its  gracefully  curving  branches 
supported  exactly  seven  hundred  and  sixty-two  pen- 
dants of  triangular  cut  crystal.  And  each  one  of 
these  pendants,  as  Aunt  Fanny  explained,  must  be 
carefully  unhooked,  carefully  taken  down  to  the 
table,  carefully  wiped,  carefully  taken  up  again,  and 
carefully  rehooked,  each  in  its  proper  place. 

"Some  job!"  observed  the  boy,  as  soon  as  he  had 
gathered  six  of  the  treasures  and  started  down  the 
ladder,  heartened  by  Aunt  Fanny's  shriek,  "Don't 
hit  them  together !" 

She  stood  watching  the  operation  until  Henry, 
amid  grunts  of  painful  concentration,  had  denuded 
one  icy  branch  of  its  load. 

"Henry!"  she  said,  so  suddenly  that  the  small 
person,  his  face  very  red  from  reaching  through  a 
tangle  of  glass  boughs,  set  a  merry  chorus  of  tink- 
ling pendants  going  as  he  gained  his  equilibrium. 
"Henry,  Mr.  Dowle  has  written  to  Mr.  Plothier 
about  your  behaviour." 

"I  didn't  do  it!"  protested  the  accused,  blushing 
scarlet. 

"He  says  you've  been  fighting  with  Sydney  Kit- 
teridge." 


208  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I  didn't!" 

"Don't  prevaricate  to  me !"  The  old  lady's  smile 
was  wilting. 

"I  didn't  fight  Sydney.  He  fought  me.  He  called 
me  'n  orphan  and  I  called  him  a  boob,  and  when 
he  made  a  slap  at  me  I  soaked  him  in  the  slats,  and 
he  ran  to  his  mamma.  He's  a  nice  Molly,  that  boy !" 

Aunt  Fanny  stood  with  the  silent  smile  of  con- 
demnation on  her  lips. 

"Say!  If  a  simp  called  you  'n  orphan,  wouldn't 
you  soak  him?" 

Again  she  volunteered  no  reply. 

"Henry,"  she  asked  abruptly,  "did  your  father 
drink?" 

The  boy's  jaw  dropped  an  inch,  and  he  saved  the 
crystals  he  held  from  immediate  destruction  by 
dropping  them  in  his  pocket.  The  blush  that 
mounted  lighted  up  his  prominent  ears  like  ruby 
lamps. 

"What's  it  to  you  ?"  he  enquired  brazenly. 

"Continue  with  your  work,"  said  Aunt  Fanny 
frostily.  She  departed,  showing  a  majestic  back. 

Henry,  plucking  iridescent  fruits,  wondered  why 
fate  had  destined  him  to  be  the  bond-slave  of  an- 
cient females.  From  his  lofty  aerie  he  could  look 
over  into  the  elysium  of  the  Colby  lawn. 

"Gee!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  for  a  scurrying 
out  there  caught  his  gaze.  There  was  a  streak  of 
grey  fur  followed  by  a  brown  one,  and  Miss  Colby's 
Maltese  kitten,  Hannibal,  could  be  plainly  seen  in 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      209 

the  branches  of  a  tree,  ears  flat,  glaring  down  at  the 
Chow  dog,  Yam,  who  lolled  his  blue  tongue  from 
the  ground  and  uttered  never  a  bark. 

Aunt  Fanny  hated  animals,  and  her  antipathy 
centred  on  cats,  Henry  reflected ;  but  the  kitten  be- 
ionged  to  Miss  Carrots,  and  was  therefore  a  thing  to 
t>e  considered.  A  front  window  was  open,  and  the 
boy  climbed  silently  out.  It  was  a  harder  matter 
than  he  at  first  imagined  to  rescue  the  beleagured 
Hannibal.  At  Henry's  approach,  the  Chow  re- 
treated to  a  distance,  where  he  sat  shaggily  and 
showed  his  humorous  tongue  like  a  bear  that  had 
been  eating  huckleberries.  Hannibal,  with  the 
stupid  cautiousness  of  the  feline,  continued  to  back 
up  and  up  as  Henry  advanced,  disdaining  his  coax- 
ing tones  and  lingering  tantalisingly  beyond  his 
fingers.  At  last,  by  a  crafty  shake  of  a  bough,  Han- 
nibal was  caught  like  a  flying-squirrel  in  midair, 
the  bough  under  Henry  abruptly  bent  double,  and 
a  motley  mingling  of  boy  and  cat  came  avalanching 
to  earth. 

Aunt  Fanny  entered  the  parlour  and  gazed  hor- 
rendously  about.  There  was  no  useful  orphan  to  be 
seen  or  heard.  The  crystals  on  the  chandelier  hung 
practically  as  they  were  when  she  had  last  examined 
them — save  for  the  fact  that  two  had  been  broken. 
As  she  was  engaged  in  this  inspection  Henry  came 
quietly  in.  There  was  a  gory  scratch  across  his 
forehead,  one  of  his  fingers  was  bleeding. 


2io  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Where  have  you  been?"  enquired  Aunt  Fanny, 
her  smile  tightening  to  a  slit. 

"Miss  Colby's  cat  was " 

"That  will  do !    You  have  been  fighting  again." 

At  dinner,  Daniel  Plothier  made  humorous  com- 
ment on  the  rich  red  tattoo-mark  over  Henry's  left 
eyebrow.  The  boy  snickered  nervously,  but  Aunt 
Fanny  sat  like  a  graven  image. 

Later  on,  Daniel  came  upon  her  in  the  parlour 
nourishing  her  brain  from  Saleeby's  "Parenthood 
and  Race  Culture."  Under  her  elbow  Daniel 
picked  up  a  plump  volume,  and  turned  up  the  title. 

"  'Studies  in  National  Eugenics/ '  he  read. 
"Well,  Aunt  Fanny,  what  the " 

"I'm  reading  up,"  snapped  Aunt  Fanny.  "I 
think  we  have  a  very  bad  boy  on  our  hands." 

"You  don't  mean  Henry!" 

"I  do  mean  Henry,"  she  corrected  him.  "If  diso- 
bedience, rowdyism,  vulgarity,  and  untruth  fulness 
count  for  anything,  I  think  you've  brought  quite  a 
serious  problem  into  our  home.  And  when  I  tried 
to  correct  him  in  the  gentlest  possible  way,  do  you 
know  what  he  said  to  me?"  She  rummaged  in  her 
reticule  and  brought  forth  an  envelope  with  a  pencil 
jotting  on  the  back.  She  handed  it  to  Daniel,  who 
read: 

"What's  it  to  you?" 

"I  made  a  note  of  it  at  the  time,  so  I  could  re- 
member the  exact  phrase,  which  he  hurled  at  me  in 
the  roughest  possible  slum  voice,"  she  explained. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      211 

Daniel  seemed  inclined  to  humour,  until  she,  cat- 
egorically, went  over  a  list  of  Henry's  felonies. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Dowle  was  complaining  of  his  law- 
lessness; he  was  coming  home  from  school  later 
and  later  each  night;  he  was  developing  shocking 
slang;  he  was  absconding  apples  from  the  kitchen 
for  between-meal  luncheons ;  and  yesterday  she  had 
found  the  lock  to  the  toy-cabinet  broken,  and  the 
unscrewed  fragments  of  the  antique  stationary  en- 
gine strewn  about  the  bedroom. 

"The  toys  were  made  to  play  with/'  Daniel  pro- 
tested. 

"Daniel !"  She  eyed  him  deliberately.  "Did  you 
thoroughly  enquire  into  that  boy's  parentage  before 
you  took  him  from  the  asylum?" 

"They  told  me  his  father  and  mother  were  good 
Scotch  Presbyterians." 

"Some  Scotchmen  are  drunkards.     Did  you  ask  , 
if  they  were  drunkards?" 

"Why,  no.  I  took  it  for  granted  they  were  sober, 
industrious " 

"Before  giving  a  strange  boy  your  name  you 
should  take  nothing  for  granted.  I  suppose  you  also 
overlooked  such  small  matters  as  idiocy,  insanity, 
degeneracy,  criminality,  and  hereditary  taint  in  his 
ancestry  ?" 

"I  took  him  for  what  he  was — a  good,  clean-cut, 
intelligent  boy." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  are  familiar  with  Galton's 
law  of  heredity,"  she  charged  scornfully,  "but  to 


212  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

those  who  realise  the  importance  of  parenthood  the 
work  is  invaluable,  showing  the  futility  of  making 
good  fruit  out  of  bad.  Brainthwaite  and  Saleeby 
both  tell  us  that  our  public  institutions — and  I  in- 
clude orphan  asylums — are  peopled  with  the  off- 
spring of  persons  unfit  for  parenthood.  From  what 
I  have  been  reading,  I  should  rather  take  a  leper 
into  my  home  than  the  child  of  a  clironic  drunk- 
ard." 

"But  nobody  has  said  Henry's  parents  were 
chronic  drunkards/' 

"Nobody  has  said  they  were  not/'  she  insisted. 
"I  have  eyes  to  see  with.  Henry  is  certainly  not  a 
normal,  law-abiding  child." 

"He'll  grow  out  of  this." 

"You  owe  it  to  yourself,  Daniel  Plothier,  to  go 
to  the  Shelter  for  the  Innocents  and  insist  upon  see- 
ing the  records  of  Henry's  origin  and  parentage. 
You  certainly  owe  it  to  yourself." 

Aunt  Fanny  gathered  up  her  books,  her  reticule, 
her  spectacles,  and  her  crocheted  scarf,  and  limped 
upstairs.  As  Daniel  entered  the  library,  Henry 
looked  up  from  "The  Glories  of  Egypt." 

"Dad,"  he  enquired,  "here's  about  a  statue  called 
theSpink.  What's  a  spink  ?" 

"A  fierce  old  woman  who  asked  riddles,"  replied 
Daniel.  "And  now,  boy,  I  want  you  to  be  decent 
about  everything,  won't  you?" 

Henry  saw  an  indescribable  change  in  the  man- 
ner of  this  man  he  liked. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      213 


VI 

Something  was  certainly  happening  to  the  Shelter 
for  the  Innocents.  A  gang  of  noisy  artisans  were 
planing  vast  yards  of  ugly  stain  off  the  floors  and 
woodwork.  Up  aloft,  paper-hangers  were  already 
beginning  to  adorn  the  walls  with  strips  of  grey- 
blue  cartridge-paper.  Everywhere  was  the  destruc- 
tive chaos  that  comes  before  progress. 

In  the  midst  of  alarms  stood  a  rather  short,  rather 
stout  middle-aged  man  who  wore  his  black  derby 
hat  above  a  new  grey  business  suit.  He  fingered  his 
close-cropped  mustache  and  studied  blue-prints 
through  eye-glasses  which  were  no  brighter  than 
the  dancing  eyes  behind  them.  Whoever  this  man 
was,  he  was  an  alert,  wholesome,  intelligent  member 
of  the  community. 

"Dr.  Nicholas,"  said  a  workman  in  overalls,  ap- 
proaching with  an  armful  of  framed  mottoes.  "I 
found  these  all  over  the  place.  What  shall  I  do 
with 'em?" 

Dr.  Nicholas  turned  his  flashing  glasses  upon  the 
lot. 

"  'In  the  Shadow  of  His  Wings/  "  he  read,  se- 
lecting two  from  the  armful.  "  'When  Skies  Are 
Cold  and  Winds  Are  Wild,  How  Sweet  to  Shield 
the  Orphan  Child.' '  He  handed  the  mottoes  back 
to  their  bearer.  "Give  them  to  Mike,  the  janitor," 


214  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

he  said.  "He  has  a  brother  in  the  undertaking  busi- 
>ness." 

Daniel  Plothier  came  to  the  open  door  and  rang 
the  bell,  but,  as  nobody  heeded  it,  he  walked  into 
the  midst  of  battle  and  addressed  the  field  marshal. 

"I  am  looking  for  the  superintendent,"  Daniel 
began. 

"I  am  the  superintendent/'  said  the  Doctor. 

"Oh!  I  thought  it  was  Mrs.  Sulley." 

"Mrs.  Sulley  has — um — retired.  This  institution 
has  gone  under  modern  control.  It  is  being  thor- 
oughly fumigated  of  past  traditions,  and  will  here- 
after make  a  noble  effort  to  catch  up." 

"Was  it  behind  the  times  ?" 

"It  was  about  contemporary  with  the  Vandal 
conquests,  I  should  say." 

"My  name  is  Plothier,"  Daniel  began  nervously. 
"I  adopted  a  boy  from  this  place." 

"Yes.  A  boy  named  Anderson.  I  know  about 
the  case,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking  up  sharply. 

"You  do!    What  about  it?" 

"I  suppose  the  late  lamented  handed  him  over  to 
you  in  the  good,  old-fashioned  way,  with  a  happy 
smile  and  a  God-will-provide?" 

"Something  like  that." 

The  superintendent  motioned  him  toward  his 
library  upstairs,  and  the  adopted  father's  heart  sank 
with  every  step  up.  The  big  room  they  entered  was 
shining  with  an  array  of  card-index  files  rivalling 
the  reference  library  of  a  life-insurance  company. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      215 

Two  stenographers  were  making  out  cards,  and  a 
young  woman  in  a  pink  waist  was  sorting  cards  into 
their  proper  nests.  Dr.  Nicholas  spoke  a  word  to 
the  latter,  and,  returning  to  Plothier,  motioned  him 
to  a  chair. 

"In  modern  orphanages,"  he  began,  "Mr.  Gal- 
ton's  idea  of  eugenics " 

"Good  Lord!"  groaned  Daniel.  "Are  you  going 
to  give  me  eugenics?" 

"You  and  the  world,"  smiled  the  Doctor.  "Gal- 
ton's  discovery  is  as  useful  to  my  work  as  the  sys- 
tem of  Bertillon  to  the  wardens  of  our  prisons. 
With  all  due  consideration  for  the  parentless  child, 
we  feel  it  a  crime  for  a  responsible  institution  to 
foist  on  a  wholesome  family  the  hereditary  victim 
of  'racial  poison' — alcohol  and  disease.  Don't 
imagine,  from  what  I  say,  that  we  refuse  to  take 
any  parentless  child  into  our  home;  but  we  never 
permit  him  to  go  into  full  adoption  until  we  have 
looked  him  up." 

"How?"  said  Plothier. 

"The  modern  orphan  asylums  of  this  country 
have  in  their  employ  a  force  of  secret  investigators, 
— detectives,  you  might  call  them, — smaller  but 
fully  as  well  equipped  as  those  working  for  our 
great  banking  associations.  You  wish  to  adopt 
John  Smith,  let  us  say.  You  present  your  creden- 
tials and  become  acquainted  with  the  child.  Mean- 
while' our  investigators  are  out  searching  the  rec- 
ords. John  Smith's  father  might  have  been  a 


2i6  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

preacher,  a  pillar  of  the  community;  but  we  take 
nothing  for  granted.  Who  was  his  grandfather? 
His  grandmother?  Was  Smith,  the  clergyman,  ad- 
dicted to  secret  tipple  or  a  drug  habit?  Was  there 
disease  in  his  family  ?  Our  investigators  can  gather 
you  a  moral  genealogy  in  a  month's  time — or,  if  it 
takes  longer,  the  child  cannot  be  adopted  until  we 
positively  know.  Meanwhile  we  are  investigating 
you."  The  doctor  removed  his  bright  eye-glasses 
and  pointed  them  accusingly  at  Daniel  Plothier. 

'The  adopting  party  has  to  pass,  too?"  asked 
Daniel,  looking  anxiously  toward  the  maze  of  files, 
where  the  librarian  was  still  busily  pulling  out  al- 
phabetic slides. 

"You  little  realise  what  a  searchlight  we  can  put 
on  your  character,  sir,  without  you  knowing  any- 
thing about  it.  If  you  pass  our  test  you  are  quali- 
fied, I  assure  you,  to  enter  Bradstreet's  or  the  king- 
dom of  heaven.  But  the  point  at  issue  with  us  now 
is  the  boy.  Ah,  here  we  are!" 

The  young  woman  in  the  pink  waist  was  handing 
to  Dr.  Nicholas  a  bundle  of  cards.  The  Doctor 
glanced  over  them. 

"Henry  Anderson/'  he  said.  "There  is  no  use 
going  over  the  whole  form.  His  mother  was  a 
scrubwoman  working  in  office  buildings  in  New 
York.  His  father  a  truckman,  when  employed. 
Mother  a  chronic  alcoholic.  Father  convicted  of 
petty  thieving.  Mother  died  in  City  Hospital,  de- 
lirium tre " 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      217 

"My  God!"  The  tall  man  rose.  "Why  did  that 
Sulley  woman  lie  to  me  ?  She  told  me  the  boy  was 
of  sober  Scotch  Presbyterian  parentage " 

"Mrs.  Sulley  was  a  paretic  old  hen,"  announced 
the  physician.  "There  was  a  boy  here,  named  Tom 
Anderson,  whose  parents  were  sober  Scotch  Pres- 
byterians. Mrs.  Sulley's  life  seemed  devoted  to 
mixing  the  records  of  Tom  Anderson  and  Henry 
Anderson.  And  you  have  reaped  the  harvest." 

"Good  morning !"  gasped  Daniel  Plothier,  stamp- 
ing out  of  the  place  and  into  his  short-winded  auto- 
mobile by  the  door. 

Dr.  Nicholas  gazed  contemplatively  from  the 
window  at  the  stern  man  in  the  car  outside. 

"Fine  American  stock,  that  man,"  he  mused. 
"Old  Ironsides  of  a  grandfather,  probably.  Why 
does  he  need  to  adopt  children?" 


VII 

The  cool  barrier  of  suspicion,  now  raised  between 
Daniel  Plothier  and  his  adopted  son,  widened  rap- 
idly; and  the  largest  stones,  I  fear,  were  laid  there 
by  the  restless,  naughty  hands  of  Henry  Anderson 
Plothier.  Daniel  was  amazed  at  the  hurt  his  disap- 
pointment gave  him.  All  the  affection  of  the  par- 
ental type  had  arisen  in  him  during  the  boy's  first 
months  of  probation.  It  frightened  the  man  to 
think  how  much  his  father-heart  had  grown  toward 


218  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

this  amusing,  engaging  little  lad,  who  looked  at  you 
with  eyes  so  honest,  yet  refused  to  obey  any  law. 

But  you  can't  take  sound  fruit  out  of  a  rotten 
barrel,  as  Aunt  Fanny  had  said. 

March  was  now  blowing  into  showery  April,  and 
they  had  long  since  given  up  sending  Henry  to 
school,  due  to  a  series  of  disgraceful  but  exciting 
events  which  publicly  proclaimed  Mr.  Plothier's 
mistake  before  Mr.  Dowle's  Academy  for  Boys. 
All  the  eyes  of  the  school  had  said  "Henry  Plo- 
thier!"  when  Mr.  Dowle's  waste-paper  basket 
turned  over  and  walked  away  one  morning  during 
prayers,  the  power  of  locomotion  emanating  from 
a  collie  pup  inside  the  basket.  Being  more  skilful 
at  figures  than  any  other  boy  in  his  grade,  Henry 
was  proclaimed  a  young  Marconi  for  a  week,  due  to 
his  secret  system  of  finger-signals,  whereby  a  cor- 
rect answer  in  mental  arithmetic  could  be  at  once 
transmitted  to  the  mental  paralytic  under  examina- 
tion by  the  Chief  Inquisitor.  Thick-skulled  little 
Norbert  Pierce,  failing  in  the  act  of  catching  these 
helpful  flashes,  had  turned  state's  evidence,  and 
again  Henry  was  pilloried. 

Henry's  bitter  ending  at  Mr.  Dowle's  school  ar- 
rived one  still  afternoon,  when  a  restless  score  of 
boys  sat  in  the  assembly  room,  torturing  dull  brains 
over  hard  words.  Henry  suddenly  petitioned  the 
near-sighted  Mr.  Lewton  for  the  simple  right  of  a 
drink  of  water.  Petition  granted.  It  was  not 
Henry's  fault  that  the  faucet  at  the  end  of  the  hall 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      219 

was  near  a  window,  or  that  the  window  led  to  a 
balcony,  or  that  the  balcony  was  right  over  a  side 
entrance  to  the  school,  or  that,  just  as  the  boy  lin- 
gered for  a  momentary  peep  at  the  weather,  who 
should  come  slouching  down  the  avenue  but  Nick, 
the  Athenian  candy  vender,  pushing  before  him  a 
tray  of  petrified  confections.  It  was,  apparently, 
the  will  of  Allah  that  Henry  should  fall. 

On  the  window-ledge  reposed  a  small  green  bas- 
ket littered  with  fragments  of  broken  chalk.  In 
Henry's  pocket  reposed  a  coil  of  fish-line  sufficient 
to  plumb  the  space  between  the  window  and  the 
street.  In  seven  seconds  the  line  was  attached  to 
the  handle  of  the  basket,  a  dime  deposited  therein, 
and  the  basket  was  making  its  whirling  journey  to 
the  street.  Nicholas  of  Athens  saw  the  basket, 
heeded  the  signal  from  above,  and  obeyed  with  a 
sly  intelligence  which  well  confirmed  Mr.  Virgil's 
fear  of  Greeks  bearing  tid-bits.  Sixteen  brown, 
dyspeptic  bars  were  laid  in  the  basket  amid  frag- 
ments of  chalk. 

"Pull  away/'  signalled  the  Greek,  and  the  basket 
began  its  perilous  journey  upward. 

The  basket  was  dangling  half  way  between  the 
balcony  and  the  street,  when  it  happened.  A  gen- 
tleman in  a  black  coat  and  black  Alpine  hat  rounded 
the  corner  and  started  toward  the  side  entrance. 
Nick  pushed  away  rapidly.  Henry,  above,  hesi- 
tated between  action  and  repose.  The  gentleman 


22O  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

cast  a  startled  eye  upward  so  suddenly  as  to  cause 
a  nervous  twitching  in  Henry's  wrist.  The  string, 
fouled  on  an  ornamental  ledge,  abruptly  severed, 
and  down  clattered  chalk,  basket,  candy,  and  all. 
Vision  of  sudden  death!  Picture  of  black  fedora, 
white  chalk,  smeary  chocolate — and  the  angry  face 
looking  up  at  Henry  was  that  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Dowle! 

Immediate  carnage  followed. 

"...  I  feel  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  say"  (the 
Rev.  Mr.  Dowle's  letter  to  Mr.  Plothier  ran)  "that, 
perhaps  due  to  his  peculiar  origin,  the  boy  seems 
heedless  of  all  authority.  This  can  no  doubt  be 
corrected  in  time,  as  he  is  quick  to  learn;  but  the 
high  moral  character  of  my  academy  makes  it  im- 
perative for  us  to  guard  against  influences  inimical 
to  the  proper  upbringing  of  youth.  And  several 
parents  have  submitted  written  and  oral  complaints 
of  the  lawlessness  of  your  son/' 

"High  animal  spirits  are  no  crime,"  said  Daniel 
Plothier,  in  discussing  his  bad  bargain  with  Aunt 
Fanny. 

"The  records  show  that  his  father  was  a  petty 
thief,"  replied  Aunt  Fanny  without  emotion.  "His 
systematic  cheating  in  arithmetic  points  to  an  en- 
tire lack  of  the  moral  sense.  Nothing  in  the  house 
is  safe,  I  am  sure/' 

"Fudge!"  grunted  Daniel,  and  went  upstairs  in 
search  of  an  instrument  little  used  in  this  genera- 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      221 

tion.  In  the  store-room  he  came  upon  an  old  razor- 
strop,  which  he  cut  from  its  hook,  carefully  rolled 
up,  and  put  in  his  hip  pocket. 

"Come  up  to  my  bedroom!"  he  huskily  com- 
manded of  the  boy,  who  followed,  pale  as  a  sheet. 

"Now,  Henry,"  he  began,  carefully  unrolling  the 
razor-strop,  "I've  done  everything  I  could  for  you. 
I've  taken  you  out  of  an  institution  and  put  you  in 
a  good  home.  I've  given  you  my  name  and  tried  to 
educate  you  to  be  a  good  man.  And  you've  dis- 
graced me." 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  Henry,  looking  fixedly  at  his 
shoes. 

"I  am  sorry  to  do  this,  Henry,  but  there  seems 
to  be  only  one  way.  Take  off  your  coat." 

The  boy  quietly  removed  his  jacket  and  stepped 
forward  to  receive  the  blow  which  fell  noisily  be- 
tween his  shoulders. 

"Dad!"  cried  he,  every  muscle  tense  and  a  look 
of  agony  in  his  eyes.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  do 
this!" 

"Damn  it,  neither  did  I!"  Daniel  was  saying  to 
himself.  But  the  ghost  of  Grandfather  Plothier 
was  whispering  in  his  ear :  "Do  your  duty,  Daniel. 
Spare  not  the  rod!" 

The  steady  spat-spat  of  the  strop  upstairs  was 
melancholy  music  to  the  ears  of  Aunt  Fanny  be- 
low; yet  the  boy  made  never  a  sound.  At  last  the 
deed  was  done,  and  Daniel  Plothier  stalked  from 


222  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

the  room,   giddy  as  an  executioner  who  has  be- 
headed a  friend. 

The  door  was  closed.  The  strop  lay  on  the  floor, 
neglected  where  it  had  fallen.  Henry  opened  his 
pocket-knife  and  cut  it  into  a  thousand  strips  be- 
fore throwing  himself  on  the  bed,  a  prey  to  disil- 
lusionment. 


VIII 

On  the  rare  days  when  Aunt  Fanny  relented, — 
and  that  was  seldom,  now, — Henry  flew  on  en- 
chanted errands  at  the  side  of  Miss  Carrots  in  the 
grey  car.  Being  chums,  there  was  a  conspiracy 
between  them.  He  was  to  learn  how  to  drive  her 
car,  and  some  day,  she  made  the  fairy  promise, 
some  day  when  he  was  an  inch  taller,  he  should  be 
suddenly  promoted  to  full  control  of  the  machine, 
and  alone,  solemnly,  one  hand  on  the  wheel  and  the 
other  on  the  brake,  per  instructions,  he  should  pull 
up  at  the  Plothier  gate  and  sing  out,  "Come  out  for 
a  ride,  Dad!" 

"But  he  wouldn't,"  Henry  objected  hopelessly. 

"Why  not?" 

"He  don't  think  anything  I  do  is  smart  any  more. 
I'm  a  bad  kid,  you  know,  Miss  Carrots.  Dad's 
found  it  out,  and  he's  gave  up  trying  to  make  any- 
thing out  of  me.  I've  gave  up  tryin',  too.  You 
can't  take  good  fruit  out  of  a  rotten  barrel."  Hen- 
ry's self-analysis  was  inexorable. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      223 

"Who  told  you  that  rubbish?"  She  turned  the 
sea-grey  crystals  full  on  him. 

"Aunt  Fanny.  She's  gave  up,  too.  She  says  I'm 
a  eugenic." 

"I  think  she  gave  up  before  she  began,"  scoffed 
Barbara.  Then,  recollecting  herself,  she  resumed 
her  role  of  instructor.  "Come  now,  Pawnee.  Put 
your  foot  well  on  the  clutch — not  so  quick!" 

It  was  his  third  lesson,  and  Henry — enthusiasm 
breeding  precocity — was  already  a  sufficiently  fin- 
ished chauffeur  to  round  a  corner  with  nobody  but 
himself  in  control. 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me,"  she  said,  that  night,  as 
they  swung  into  the  home  road. 

"About  me?" 

"Yes.  You'll  always  tell  me  things,  won't  you, 
Pawnee?" 

"You  bet!" 

"And  you  and  your  dad  ought  to  get  to  under- 
stand each  other.  He's  really  a  very  good  man." 

"He's  a  peach,  Miss  Carrots.  I  sometimes  think 
if  he  was  around  more,  and  would  tell  me  things 
the  way  he  used  to,  I  wouldn't  do  lots  of  things. 
But  he's  gave  me  up.  I  guess  he  brought  the  wrong 
boy  home  when  he  fetched  me." 

"You  ought  to  talk  to  him  like  this — frankly,  you 
know,"  she  said. 

"It's  some  stunt  to  talk  with  him/'  he  pointed  out. 
"I  wish  we  had  you  in  the  family  too." 

"Hello!     Here  we  are  home  already!"  she  ex- 


224  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

claimed  brightly,  stopping  the  car  before  the  white 
gate. 

Grateful  memory  of  her  interest  in  him  bred  an 
unnatural  righteousness  in  his  bosom  for  a  while. 
But  she  had  no  time  to  give  automobile  lessons  in 
the  ensuing  few  days,  and  when  Henry  saw  her, 
surrounded  by  luggage,  whisking  conventionally 
away  in  the  big  touring  car,  brightness  was  sud- 
denly subtracted  from  the  atmosphere  of  Yonkers. 
Dull  weeks  passed.  Came  a  deadly  Wednesday 
afternoon  when  Aunt  Fanny  was  away  reading  a 
paper  before  the  Fortnightly,  and  Henry  languished 
in  the  library,  preparing  a  lesson  in  American  his- 
tory. A  rattlety-banging  ensued  from  the  driveway 
without,  and  Henry,  alert  for  diversion,  beheld 
the  Plothier  automobile,  recently  consigned  to  a  re- 
pair shop,  rolling  noisily  home  at  the  hand  of  a 
grimy  young  man  in  a  sleeveless  jersey. 

Henry  was  out  of  the  window  instanter  and  rac- 
ing after  the  blowing  dragon  in  its  progress  to  the 
garage. 

"Is  it  all  fixed?"  enquired  Henry,  kicking  the 
tires  critically. 

"Tell  your  pa  the  chain  is  all  ground  down  and 
she  needs  a  new  spring  in  'er  right  side,"  diagnosed 
the  car  doctor;  "otherwise  she's  a  perfectly  good 
car.  Now,  run  out,  sonny;  I  want  to  close  the 
door/' 

"I'll  close  it  for  you,"  Henry  generously  assured 
him.  And  the  man  swung  down  the  path. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      225 

It  was  a  marvel  for  all  the  neighbourhood  to  see, 
that  afternoon.  An  automobile  of  limited  horse- 
power but  unlimited  noise  went  racing  giddily 
around  corners,  with  no  one — so  it  seemed  at  first 
glimpse — to  propel  the  flying  miracle.  At  second 
gaze  you  could  make  out  a  small  head  just  above 
level  with  the  top  of  the  wheel ;  but  what  that  head 
was  trying  to  accomplish  the  startled  and  indignant 
pedestrian  could  not  make  out.  For  the  machine 
proceeded  up  the  wrong  side  on  one  street  and  down 
the  wrong  side  on  the  other.  Citizens  of  Yonkers 
shouted  at  the  flying  phenomenon  without  the 
slightest  effect,  for  the  elderly  machine  seemed  bent 
on  suicide  in  some  peculiar  spot  chosen  for  senti- 
mental purposes.  With  skiddings,  cavortings,  back- 
firings,  and  a  noisome  smudge  of  oil,  it  tempera- 
mentally crossed  the  sidewalk  just  opposite  a  vacant 
lot,  ran  to  within  six  inches  of  a  picket  fence,  and 
suddenly  stopped  amid  hideous  clankings.  The 
chain,  just  as  the  car  doctor  had  observed,  was 
uall  ground  down"  and  had  providentially  slipped 
its  sprockets. 

Henry  scrambled  out  of  the  seat,  too  joyful  at 
the  miraculous  deliverance  to  reckon  further  costs. 
A  crowd  began  stringing  into  the  lot,  surrounding 
him,  with  a  thousand  questions,  while  Henry  non- 
chalantly gathered  up  the  chain,  assuming  the  air 
of  a  boss  mechanic. 

"Does  your  father  allow  a  child  like  you  to  take 


226  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

out  a  car  alone?"  asked  a  mild  gentleman  in  a 
shocked  tone. 

"Sure!  I  take  it  out  'most  every  day,"  lied 
Henry,  made  giddy  by  publicity. 

"Who's  the  car  belong  to?"  asked  some  one  else. 

"It  belongs  to  me"  suddenly  spoke  up  a  master 
voice  coming  out  of  the  nowhere.  And,  looking  up, 
Henry's  gaze  was  impaled  on  the  dagger  glance  of 
Daniel  Plothier,  towering  among  thunder-clouds. 

There  was  no  repetition  of  the  razor-strop  ordeal 
that  night.  Henry  was  given  the  silent  treatment, 
which  has  driven  even  soldiers  to  madness.  At 
supper  his  elders  and  betters  seemed  ages  older  and 
eons  better  than  he.  They  gave  him  the  cold  com- 
fort of  politeness — the  politeness  of  twin  pole-stars 
beaming  upon  a  frozen  earthworm.  When  he  said 
good~  night  their  air  was  courtly.  He  was  dis- 
missed. 

Across  the  reading-lamp  Aunt  Fanny  said :  "He 
is  a  moral  defective.  There  is,  of  course,  nothing 
to  do  but  get  rid  of  him." 

"Tie  a  flat-iron  around  his  neck  and  drop  him 
into  a  pond,  for  instance?" 

Up  in  his  room  Henry  found  a  letter  callowly  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  lead  pencil  and  bearing  the  post- 
mark of  New  Rochelle.  It  must  have  come  while 
Aunt  Fanny  was  away,  he  reflected,  else  she  would 
have  opened  it.  The  missive,  scrawled  large  on 
lined  paper,  read : 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     227 

Dear  Pawny: 

I  have  hit  the  rode  I  no  wher  you  live  &  wil  be 
ther  tomorra  at  nine  (9)  night.  Wil  no  me  by  3 
whissles.  EDW.  (KICKAPO). 


IX 

It  was  ten  minutes  of  nine  by  Henry's  dollar 
watch,  when  a  face,  as  pale  as  the  overhanging 
moon,  lifted  itself  from  the  lilac  bushes  in  the  yard 
and,  like  the  Ancient  Mariner's  horrid  vision,  whis- 
tled thrice.  A  lighted  window  above  opened  silently 
and  the  head  of  Henry  Anderson  Plothier  came  out. 
Slowly  the  figure  below  raised  two  hands  and  waved 
them  right  and  left.  Swiftly  the  figure  above  dis- 
played three  fingers  pointed  to  the  moon.  It  was 
the  more  or  less  dread  Indian  sign,  homemade  but 
effective. 

Furtively  Henry  passed  out  by  the  servants'  stair- 
way, unseen  of  Elizabeth,  the  cook. 

"Hullo,  Pawny!"  croaked  a  voice,  coming  out 
from  among  the  lilac  bushes. 

"Hullo,  Kick!"  responded  Henry.  Then,  when 
the  voice  from  the  bushes  began  further  parley, 
"Shut  up!"  And  Henry  reached  among  the  leafage 
and  dragged  forth  a  figure  a  size  larger  than  his 
own  and  conducted  it  noiselessly  to  the  berry  bushes 
down  by  the  garage.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
the  other  boy  had  advanced  much  farther  in  man- 
of-the-worldness  than  had  Henry.  He  wore  his 


228  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

trousers  precociously  long;  his  sweater  vest  was  of 
an  emerald  green  that  glowed,  even  in  the  pale 
moonlight;  his  golf  cap  was  of  an  eloquent  plaid. 

"Say,  that's  a  swell  dump  you  live  in/'  com- 
mented he  they  called  Kick,  lifting  a  hawklike, 
rather  aged  face  and  showing  front  teeth  with  wide 
spaces  between. 

"Uh,  huh!  Mr.  Plothier's  awful  rich,"  Henry 
could  not  refrain  from  boasting,  although  awed  by 
Eddie's  sudden  maturity. 

"I  bet  he's  a  dead  one,"  commented  the  sophisti- 
cated Kick.  "Most  folks  that  'dopts  kids  are.  You 
remember  Widow  Cummings,  that  took  me  out  of 
the  home?" 

"She  was  a  nice  lady,"  ventured  Henry. 

Eddie  wrinkled  a  weary  forehead. 

"Oh,  nice  enough — but  tiresome.  I  don't  think 
women  really  understand  me.  Have  a  smoke?" 
Kick  brought  a  back-broken  cigarette  from  his 
pocket,  twisted  it  into  two  unequal  parts,  and  of- 
fered the  smaller  half  to  Henry.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Henry  didn't  smoke,  but  he  feared  to  acknowl- 
edge before  the  presence  any  deficiency  in  the  arts 
of  manhood.  He  lit  the  little  stump  and  restrained 
a  cough  while  the  smudge  blew  into  his  eyes. 

"You  smoke  like  a  girl,"  gibed  the  larger  boy, 
drawing  deep. 

"It's  great!"  said  Henry  enthusiastically.  "Say, 
remember  'Kickapoo  Bill's  Escape'  we  used  to 
play?"  Henry  asked  this  question  in  the  forlorn 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     229 

hope  that  Kick's  mind  might  become  diverted  from 
the  joys  of  nicotine  and  he  could  quietly  throw  his 
cigarette  away. 

"Aw,  that's  kid  stuff!"  jeered  the  little  old  man. 

"Cowboys  are  fun/5  Henry  ventured. 

"Nix  on  'em !"  Eddie  insisted.  "They're  nothin' 
but  Rubes  on  horseback.  Y'  oughta  read  'Raf- 
fles/ ' 

Eddie  outlined  his  shining  plans  for  the  future. 
He  was  resolved  to  cut  away  entirely  from  the 
Widow  Cummings'  effeminising  influences.  Sure, 
she  gave  him  everything  he  wanted,  he  explained — 
and  showed,  as  evidence,  a  lady's-size  gold  watch 
prettily  set  with  jewels.  But  Eddie  heard  the  Red 
God  calling.  He  knew  a  joint  in  Buffalo  where  he 
could  live  like  a  king,  working  in  a  billiard  and  pool 
parlour. 

"Come  on  along,"  said  Eddie,  at  last  "Let's  you 
and  me  hit  the  road." 

To  tell  the  truth,  Henry  had  been  thinking  that 
very  thought.  It  would  be  fine  to  go  with  Kick, 
whom  he  admired  more  than  any  other  boy  he  had 
ever  met.  Aunt  Fanny,  he  felt  sure,  would  rejoice 
to  be  rid  of  him.  He  thought  with  some  regret  of 
the  peculiar,  quiet  Daniel  Plothier,  who  had  at  first 
been  so  good  to  him,  and  as  suddenly  had  begun  to 
frown  upon  everything  he  did.  Strangely  enough, 
he  felt  no  resentment  against  his  adopted  father; 
but  he  wished  passionately  never  again  to  behold 
Aunt  Fanny's  I-told-you-so  smile.  His  gaze  wan- 


230  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

dered  to  the  pleasant,  graceful  outline  of  the  Colby 
house  resting  under  the  moon,  and  his  thoughts  lin- 
gered there. 

"Well,  Pawny,  will  you  join  me?"  enquired  the 
blase  one. 

"Nope!"  replied  Henry,  with  sudden  determina- 
tion. 

"Aw,  why  not?" 

"Don't  want  to." 

"You  got  cold  feet— Molly!"  Thus  the  deepest 
insult  of  Boyville. 

"I  ain't  got  cold  feet;  but  I  don't  think  it's  right, 
after  what  Mr.  Plothier's  did  for  me." 

"Well,  stay  home  and  play  the  music-box,  if  you 
wanta,"  said  Kick  loftily.  "I  guess  I'd  better  be 
poundin'  the  ties."  He  arose  and  pulled  his  golf 
cap  farther  over  his  ears. 

Meanwhile  a  cold  night  wind  had  risen,  and  both 
boys  stood  shivering  under  the  moon. 

"Say,"  said  Henry,  after  an  embarrassed  pause, 
"where  you  going  to  sleep  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  hit  the  hay  some  place,"  responded  Ed- 
die, in  a  careless  tone  that  managed  to  have  a  bleak 
and  lonesome  sound. 

"I'll  tell  you  what!"  Henry  could  now  see  Eliza- 
beth, the  cook,  plodding  wearily  toward  the  attic, 
lamp  in  hand.  "I  got  a  key  to  the  kitchen.  Eliza- 
beth keeps  an  awful  big  fire  in  the  stove,  and  there's 
a  couch  down  there.  If  I  sneak  y'  in,  will  you 
promise  to  beat  it  before  Elizabeth  gets  up?" 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      231 

"When  does  she  get  up  ?" 

"Five  o'clock." 

"Aw,  I  ought  to  be  mushin'  it  for  Buffalo." 

"Aw,  come  on.    Y'  got  to  sleep  some  place." 

So  was  the  splendid  Kick  at  last  persuaded,  and 
the  two  held  their  breath  painfully,  while  two  sets 
of  feet  tiptoed  in  through  the  rear  door.  The  cosy, 
foody  warmth  of  the  kitchen  gained,  Eddie  spread 
his  magnificent  person  on  the  broken  relics  of  a  wal- 
nut sofa,  while  Henry  covered  him  with  a  scorched 
section  of  blanket  ordinarily  used  on  the  ironing- 
board. 

"Well,  good  luck !"  whispered  Henry,  rather  em- 
barrass'ed  for  the  right  thing  to  say. 

"Same  to  you,"  responded  Kickapoo  Ed,  lying 
quite  still,  but  very  wide  awake. 

"I'm  awful  sorry  I  can't  join  you.  I'd  rather  go 
with  you  than  any  other  kid,"  Henry  confessed  im- 
pulsively. 

"Thanks,"  replied  Eddie,  with  cool  brevity.  Be- 
ing very  old,  he  had  no  patience  with  "slop-overs." 


Henry  came  down  late  for  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing. Mr.  Plothier  and  Aunt  Fanny  were  still  at 
table,  but  the  litter  of  dishes  proved  that  the  meal 
had  waned.  Henry  hoped  he  didn't  look  as  hag- 
gard as  he  felt.  All  night  long  he  had  been  aware 


232  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

of  the  sleeping  pilgrim  in  the  kitchen,  and  at  inter- 
vals he  had  started  up,  hearing  creakings  indicative 
of  the  descent  of  Elizabeth,  on  the  point  of  discov- 
ering all. 

Why  did  they  both  look  at  him  so  uncomfortably 
as  he  sat  down?  He  felt  of  his  hair,  to  ascertain 
if  he  had  forgotten  to  comb  it.  No;  it  was  about 
as  straight  as  usual.  What  did  they  see? 

"Henry/'  said  Aunt  Fanny  self-consciously,  as 
soon  as  Gertrude,  also  self-consciously,  had  helped 
him  to  breakfast  food,  "did  you  happen  to  see  my 
brooch — my  diamond  brooch — I  left  on  the  parlour 
table  last  night?" 

If  an  electric  current  had  charged  Henry's  chair 
it  could  not  have  straightened  him  out  more 
abruptly. 

"Wha — what  brooch?"  he  asked  guiltily,  horror 
thrilling  him. 

"You  know  well  enough,"  she  cut  in,  her  voice 
rising  harshly. 

"There,  there,  Aunt  Fanny,"  Daniel  mollified. 
"You'll  find  it  without  making  all  that  fuss." 

"I  certainly  will  find  it!"  she  snapped — "and  I'm 
not  going  to  allow  any  false  sentiment  to  stand  in 
the  way.  Henry,  where  were  you  last  night?" 

But  the  boy  said  nothing.  He  was  beginning  to 
cry  silently  into  his  breakfast. 

Daniel  arose.  He  was  simulating  calm,  but  his 
bones  seemed  melting  as  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 
In  the  library,  he  locked  the  door  and  looked  up  the 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      233 

telephone  number  of  the  Shelter  for  the  Innocents. 

"Dr.  Nicholas,"  he  spoke  into  the  receiver,  as 
soon  as  proper  connections  were  made,  "you  prom- 
ised to  give  me  further  advice  concerning  my — the 
Anderson  boy  we  were  talking  about.  Come  out  to 
lunch  to-day?  That's  very  good  of  you.  My  car 
will  meet  you  at  the  station — eleven-fifteen.  Good- 
bye!" 

Aunt  Fanny  knocked  sharply  on  the  library  door 
and  took  her  welcome  for  granted. 

"Now,  Daniel,"  she  began  at  once,  "something's 
got  to  be  decided,  one  way  or  another." 

"Well,  what  would  you  suggest?"  he  said  coldly. 
He  had  not  moved  from  the  table  by  the  telephone. 

"You  evidently  don't  believe  Henry  took  my 
brooch?" 

"There's  not  the  slightest  evidence  that  he  did." 

"Oh!"  Aunt  Fanny  walked  dramatically  to  the 
door,  and  dramatically  Elizabeth,  the  cook,  was 
ushered  in. 

"Elizabeth,  tell  Mr.  Plothier  what  you  saw." 

Elizabeth  was  dowered  with  the  gift  of  reciting 
an  entire  melodrama  in  a  single  breath. 

"Last  night,  Mr.  Plothier,  I  heard  'im  creepin' 
about  somethin'  awful,  and  I  was  that  scart  I  dassn't 
move  for  fear  burglars  maybe  or  ghosts  was  out, 
an'  this  mornin'  I  come  downstairs  extra  early  to 
turn  the  bread — and  land  sakes ! — I  was  near  scart 
distracted  when  I  looked  out  o'  the  back  winda  and 
seen  Henry  bustin'  out  by  the  kitchen  winda  an* 


234  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

run  round  the  house,  and  when  I  got  down  there 
was  the  kitchen  a  sight  and  crumbs  everywhere  and 
a  spongecake  gone  and  another  half  et,  and  I 
says " 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  Henry  you  saw?" 
enquired  Plothier  sharply. 

"It  was  a  boy  I  seen,  an'  they  ain't  no  other  boy 
in  this  house  but  Henry,  as  I  ever  seen."  Her  logic 
was  final. 

"That  will  do,  Elizabeth/'  said  Mr.  Plothier 
stiffly.  "Send  the  boy  to  me." 

Very  small,  awkward,  red-eyed,  guilt-confessing, 
the  adopted  son  came  in  and  took  a  chair  as  com- 
manded. The  verdict  was  rendered,  and  the  sen- 
tence without  appeal. 

"You  have  been  a  failure,"  Daniel  said,  attempt- 
ing to  control  himself.  "Before  we  go  any  further, 
I  want  to  know  what  you  have  done  with  that 
brooch." 

"I  won't  tell  you,"  answered  the  boy,  without 
looking  up. 

"We  have  tried  to  give  you  a  reasonable  amount 
of  spending  money,  and  you  could  have  had  more 
by  asking  for  it.  Why  did  you  take  the  brooch  ?" 

"I  can't — I  won't  tell."  His  response  was  per- 
fectly stupid  in  its  stubbornness. 

And  then  Daniel  Plothier — kind,  reasonable  Dan- 
iel Plothier — did  a  regrettable  thing.  He  leaped  to 
his  feet,  dragged  the  boy  from  his  chair,  and  shook 
him  roughly. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      235 

"No  son  of  mine,  no  son  of  mine!"  he  roared. 
"You've  got  my  name, — the  law  won't  give  it  up, — 
but  you'll  get  nothing  more  from  me.  Do  you  hear  ? 
Now  go  away — go!" 

But,  when  the  red  lights  had  ceased  to  blind  his 
eyes,  he  saw  the  boy  still  standing  there,  like  a 
frightened  animal. 

" Where  shall  I  go?"  asked  Henry  faintly. 

"To  your  room!"  growled  the  adopted  father, 
and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

Plothier  was  too  sick  at  heart  to  meet  the  Doctor 
at  the  station,  as  he  had  promised ;  so  a  local  livery- 
man met  the  train,  bringing  Dr.  Nicholas  to  the  gate 
at  a  quarter  to  one.  The  efficient  little  man  sat  in 
the  library  and  pulled  down  lavender  silk  cuffs, 
kind  glances  showing  through  jewel-bright  glasses, 
while  Daniel  reviewed  the  history  of  the  case. 

"I  have  tried  and  tried,"  confessed  the  adopted 
father;  "and  the  more  I  try,  the  worse  it  becomes." 

"How  many  parents  of  normal  children  have  had 
the  same  experience?"  asked  the  physician. 

"Eh?" 

"I'll  grant  you,  Henry  is  a  mischievous  boy,  Mr. 
Plothier — what  one  of  us  has  not  been?  Myself, 
I  was  expelled  from  three  preparatory  schools,  as 
the  records  show,  before  I  had  reached  the  age  of 
fourteen.  And  yet,  I  am  rated  a  reasonably  useful 
member  of  the  community.  Nothing  you  have  told 
me  about  his  case  could  be  dignified  by  a  harsher 
word  than  'prank.'  But  you  have  erected  out  of 


236  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

odds  and  ends  the  scarecrow  of  heredity,  and  every 
normal  naughtiness,  coming  to  the  normal  boy,  you 
have  set  down  as " 

"Do  you  classify  the  stealing  of  a  diamond  brooch 
as  a  normal  naughtiness  ?"  asked  Daniel  sharply. 

"You  have  not  sufficient  evidence  on  that  score  to 
hang  the  boy,"  said  Dr.  Nicholas.  "People  are  too 
quick  to  condemn  on  prejudice.  A  sleepy  servant 
tells  you  she  saw  a  boy  breaking  out  of  the  kitchen. 
In  the  light  of  dawn  she  might  easily  have  taken  a 
tramp  for  a  tall  boy.  At  any  rate, — and  I  am  not 
a  betting  man, — I'll  wager  you  a  hundred  dollars 
that  Henry  never  took  that  brooch." 

"Why  do  you  feel  so  sure?" 

"He  does  not  come  of  the  sort  of  people  who 
breed  thieves,"  responded  Dr.  Nicholas  strangely. 

"I  can't  fathom  you,  Doctor.  Didn't  you  assure 
me,  on  the  evidence  of  your  card  index,  that  his 
mother  was  an  alcoholic  and  his  father  a  petty 
thief?"  Plothier  sat  wiping  his  forehead. 

Dr.  Nicholas  arose  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"Mr.  Plothier,"  he  began,  "you  will  justly  con- 
demn me  for  what  I  am  going  to  say;  but  I  have 
come  to  confess  that  we  have  again  made  a  mistake 
in  the  records  of  Henry  Anderson's  ancestry.  Let 
me  explain.  The  late  Mrs.  Sulley  had  so  ingenu- 
ously mixed  the  records  that,  at  the  time  you  first 
called  and  enquired,  the  Augean  stable  had  not  even 
begun  to  be  tidied.  It  has  taken  more  than  a  year 
to  arrange  that  chaos,  and  only  last  week  was  the 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      237 

correct  library  completed.  In  going  over  the  files 
I  came  upon  the  revised  cards  in  Henry  Anderson's 
case,  and  found,  to  my  amazement,  that  the  case 
was  as  Mrs.  Sulley  had  at  first  stated — Henry  was 
the  son  of  the  moral  Scotch  Presbyterian  couple, 
as  sound  a  parentage  as  any  President  could  re- 
quire." 

Daniel  simply  stared. 

"You  have  perpetrated  a  fearful  libel  upon  that 
boy !"  he  groaned  at  last. 

"I  acknowledge  the  wrong  I  have  done,"  replied 
the  Doctor  simply.  "You  asked  me  for  the  boy's 
parentage,  and  I  gave  you  as  near  the  truth  as  I 
knew  at  the  time." 

The  telephone  jangled  upon  silence,  and  Daniel, 
for  a  while,  filled  the  mouthpiece  with  numerous 
expletives,  affirmatives,  denials,  and  explanations. 

"You  win!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  turning  to  the 
Doctor. 

"So  soon?" 

"The  constable  at  Fishkill  caught  a  strange  boy, 
about  eight  this  morning,  entering  a  warehouse. 
Among  his  possessions  he  seems  to  have  a  diamond 
brooch  marked  Tanny  Troutt,  Yonkers.'  It 
couldn't  be  Henry;  he  was  here  at  eight." 

"Then  Henry  is  restored  to  citizenship,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

Daniel's  thumb  went  hastily  to  the  housemaid's 
bell.  The  girl  answered  the  fevered  summons. 


238  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Go  to  Henry's  room  and  tell  him  to  come  down,'* 
he  commanded. 

"He  ain't  there,  please,  Mr.  Plothier,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"I  dunno.  I  seen  him  leavin'  this  mornin'  by  the 
back  gate,  like  he  was  goin'  some  place." 


XI 

"What's  this  about  Henry  running  away  ?" 

It  was  five  days  later,  and  Barbara  Colby,  who 
had  just  returned  from  a  prolonged  week-ending, 
looked  across  the  hedge  dividing  her  acres  from  his 
and  addressed  Daniel  in  accusing  tones.  She  had 
on  white  gloves  and  a  veil,  adding  dignity  to  her 
presence. 

"There's  nothing  about  it  but  the  truth.  He's 
gone;  that's  all."  Daniel  thrust  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  spoke  despairingly. 

"You  mean  you  have  driven  out  that  precious 
man-child — you  and  the  De  Medici  there."  Her 
eyes  blazed  as  she  indicated  Aunt  Fanny,  seen  lurk- 
ing behind  the  Plothier  curtains. 

"It  was  a  misunderstanding,  Bab,"  began  Daniel 
lamely. 

"And  Henry  got  the  worst  of  it,  as  usual.  What 
was  the  culminating  crime  that  drove  poor  Pawnee 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      239 

into  the  street?''  Tears  were  beginning  to  brighten 
her  sea-grey  eyes. 

"Everything  looked  against  him,"  began  Daniel, 
struggling  to  maintain  a  calm  demeanour.  "It  was 
a  plain  case  of  circumstantial  evidence;  we  had  the 
asylum's  records  showing  his  bad  origin  and 

"What  if  you  did?  Did  you  adopt  the  boy  for 
the  purpose  of  turning  him  into  a  criminal  ?  What 
sort  of  fair-weather  father  are  you?" 

"He  needs  a  mother,  I  suppose,"  said  Daniel 
sadly. 

"You  both  do,"  replied  Barbara,  no  less  pity- 
ingly. 

"Yes,  Barbara,  we  do!"  he  urged.  "And  you 
must  remember  it's  all  your  fault  that  I  ever  adopted 
this  lad  and  made  such  a  mess  of  his  life  and  mine." 

"My  fault?"  If  she  suspected  his  meaning,  she 
masked  her  knowledge. 

"Was  it  my  fault  that  the  only  woman  in  the 
world  continued  to  dangle  me  for  twenty  years,  and 
that  I  woke  up  one  morning  wanting  an  heir  in  my 
house — somebody  I  could  give  my  name  to?" 

She  stood  minutely  examining  a  streak  of  smudge 
which  she  had  rubbed  from  the  hedge  on  to  the 
forefinger  of  her  white  glove. 

"Do  you  want  him  back?"  she  asked  suddenly, 
all  gentleness.  "Because,  if  you  don't,  I  do." 

"I've  notified  every  police  station  between  New 
York  and  Buffalo,"  he  explained.  "That  looks  as 
if  I  wanted  him  back,  doesn't  it?" 


240  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"He'll  be  a  grown  man  before  you  find  him  that 
way/'  she  scoffed.  "However,  I  can  lead  you  to 
him,  if  you  really  want  him." 

"You?" 

His  mouth  still  gaped  as  she  delved  into  a  blue 
beaded-bag  and  brought  forth  a  crumpled  envel- 
ope. She  handed  it  to  Plothier,  who  read : 

Dear  Miss  Carrots, 

I  hope  you  are  well  and  am  sorry  to  say  goodby 
but  must  go  becas  nothing  seemed  to  come  out 
good,  am  here  hoping  to  do  belboy  work  in  a  hotel 
which  is  very  good  bizness.  I  think  of  you  lots  and 
wish  you  was  stoping  in  this  hotel  but  I  will  not  tell 
the  edress.  Wei  I  must  close 

Yours  truly 

PAWNY. 

"Poor  lamb !"  sighed  Barbara.  "He's  very  mys- 
terious about  his  address!  But  the  postmark  says 
Poughkeepsie." 

"Working  in  a  hotel  in  Poughkeepsie!"  ex- 
claimed Daniel.  "I  must  go  there  right  away." 

"Let  me  go  too,"  she  urged.  "Come  in  mother's 
big  car — it's  faster.  I  ought  to  help — you  say  it's 
partly  my  fault." 

In  ten  minutes  the  seven-passenger  car,  properly 
piloted  by  a  chauffeur,  was  booming  to  the  north. 
The  man  and  woman  in  the  tonneau  said  little. 

"A  fast  car's  a  blessing  in  an  emergency  like 
this,"  he  admitted,  as  the  flying  vehicle  was  out- 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     241 

raging  all  speed  regulations  in  the  outskirts  of 
Poughkeepsie. 

"You  admit  it?"  enquired  Barbara  slyly. 

"I'm  thinking  of  buying  a  racing  runabout  for 
myself/'  he  announced  humbly. 

The  car  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  best  hotel  in 
town.  A  blond  young  clerk  automatically  pulled  a 
pen  from  its  potato  sheath,  dipped  it,  and  pushed 
forth  the  register. 

"No  such  boy  employed  here/'  he  replied  decis- 
ively, returning  the  unused  pen  with  a  jab  to  its 
proper  potato.  "Your  son,  madam  ?" 

"No,"  said  Barbara,  showing  a  roseate  cheek. 
"A  relative." 

"We  don't  employ  any  boys  under  fourteen," 
added  the  clerk  virtuously. 

"He's  large  for  his  age,"  Daniel  explained. 

"Oh,  Hugo !"  The  clerk  addressed  a  bald,  oblong 
individual  about  to  descend  by  an  obscure  stairway. 
"Any  new  boys  in  the  kitchen?" 

"Dere  alvays  iss,"  Hugo  responded  promptly 
"New  poys  iss  our  specialty." 

"Oh,  show  them  to  me!"  cried  Barbara,  following 
him  impulsively  down  the  precipitous  descent  into  a 
mildewed  labyrinth. 

XII 

He  whom  they  called  Hugo  led  on  through  twi- 
light windings,  then  silently  paused,  motioned  Bar- 


242  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

bara  to  stand  in  her  tracks,  and  suddenly  vanished 
into  one  of  the  crypts  among  the  vast  catacombs 
beneath  the  hotel.  Barbara  stood  a  very  long  time 
— long  enough,  in  fact,  for  her  eyes  to  become  owl- 
like  in  the  gloom.  Half  an  acre  down  the  corridor, 
a  door  suddenly  burst  open,  and  a  figure — a  small 
figure  dragging  a  huge  bucket — tottered  slowly  to- 
ward her:  a  slavish  troll  of  this  enchanted  cave 
no  doubt. 

"  'White    wings,    they    never    grow    wee-ry !' ' 
chanted  an  unmelodious  treble,  between  tugs  at  the 
bucket. 

"Henry!"  cried  Barbara,  rushing  forward  so 
swiftly  that  the  gnome  had  no  time  to  vanish,  as 
per  book. 

"Gee!"  The  bucket  went  noisily  over,  littering 
the  cement  floor  with  corn  husks  and  potato  par- 
ings, Henry  taking  a  header  over  the  mess,  and 
pausing  on  all  fours  at  Barbara's  feet. 

"Gee!"  he  repeated.  But  his  recovery  was  swift. 
He  arose  and  backed  against  the  wall,  facing  his 
goddess.  His  person  was  entirely  obscured  in  an 
enormous  blue  denim  apron,  from  which  small,  bare 
arms  displayed  their  toil-scratched  surfaces. 

"We've  come  to  take  you  home,  dear,"  said  she, 
stooping  down  until  they  were  about  of  a  height. 

"Is  Dad — Mr.  Plothier  up  there,  Miss  Carrots?" 
he  asked  very  gravely. 

"Yes;  we  came  together,"  she  explained. 

"I  haven't  got  no  home,  Miss  Carrots,"  he  said. 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     243 

"He  don't  want  me  there.  I  got  a  good  job  here, 
and  I  can  earn  my  three  a  week  an'  learn  the  hotel 
bizness.  I'm  the  best  peeler  of  all  the  kids,  and 
when  I'm  a  year  older  I'll  be  a  bell-hop." 

"But  your  father  wants  you,  Henry,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"Aw,  quit  your  kiddin',  Miss  Carrots.  He  told 
me  he  didn't" 

The  boy's  independence  was  alarming. 

"Pawnee,  when  we  first  became  chums,  do  you 
remember  what  you  promised  me?" 

'To  tell  everything?    Say,  I  can't !" 

"A  promise  is  a  promise.  Why  can't  you  keep  it 
now,  Henry?" 

"You  wanta  know  about  that  di-mond.  Honest, 
I  can't  split  on  a  friend  o'  mine!"  The  boy  was 
beginning  to  sniff  ominously. 

"Then  a  friend  of  yours  did  it?" 

"I  didn't  think  he'd  throw  me  like  that,  Miss 
Carrots — but,  honest,  I  can't  tell " 

"We  know  who  did  it,  Pawnee.  It  was  Kick. 
They  found  him,  and  he  told  everything." 

"What  d'ye  think  of  that?  Will  he  go  to  jail?" 
Tears  were  beginning  to  brim. 

"No,  Pawny;  he's  safe.  Aunt  Fanny  forgave 
him  and  he  went  back  to  New  Rochelle." 

"I  didn't  think  he'd  do  it!"  Henry  now  wept 
shamelessly  into  a  corner  of  his  preposterous  apron. 
"I  took  him  into  the  kitchen  to  git  warm,  an'  see 


244  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

what  he  done!  Aw,  I  don't  wanta  tell  on  him!" 
He  began  to  sob  wildly,  and  the  woman,  with  a 
mother-murmur  of  consolation,  gathered  him  into 
her  arms. 

"Hush!"  she  soothed  the  disconsolate,  soiled  little 
runaway.  "Pawnee,  I  knew  a  chum  of  mine 
wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that  I  knew  it,  and  I'm 
proud  of  you.  Honey,  your  father  wants  you  to 
come  home.  He's  sorry  for  what  he  said — we're  all 
sorry  and  want  to  begin  all  over  again.  We'll  make 
a  great  game  out  of  everything  now,  Pawnee — 
never  be  cross  about  anything  any  more.  Won't 
you  come  and  be  with  your  father?" 

"I  would  if — if "  She  was  holding  him  close 

and  he  was  weeping  silently. 

"If  what,  Pawnee?" 

"If  I  could  be  with  you,  too." 

She  rose  and  surveyed  him.  "Take  off  that  hor- 
rid old  apron,  Henry,"  she  laughed.  "Go  to  the 
sink  and  wash  your  eyes  and  put  on  your  coat.  I'll 
wait  here  for  you." 

Henry  had  dried  his  tears,  and  was  beginning 
to  scrape  together  the  wreckage  of  potato  peelings 
and  restore  them  to  their  proper  bucket. 

"I  tell  you  what  you  do,"  he  said,  finally.  "You 
go  up  to  the  lobby  and  wait.  I  gotta  see  a  fella." 

"What  fellow?"  Barbara  enquired. 

"The  boss  cook.  I  ain't  goin'  to  quit  without  I 
get  the  two  dollars  he  owes  me  on  this  week." 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather      245 


XIII 

Daniel  sat  in  the  lobby,  his  eyes  glued  to  the  en- 
trance to  limbo  where  Barbara  had  disappeared. 

The  door  finally  opened  and  she  came  back — 
alone ! 

"Wasn't  he  there?"  asked  the  adopted  father 
huskily. 

"Let's  come  over  here  and  talk,"  she  evaded, 
motioning  to  a  horsehair  couch  in  the  reception- 
room.  And,  as  soon  as  they  were  seated : 

"Daniel,  I  want  to  ask  you  two  things." 

"Why  don't  you  answer  me  ?  Go  ahead,  if  you've 
got  to  I" 

"Well — first,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"Barbara!"  He  snatched  her  two  hands,  and 
marked  the  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Do  you — 
can  you  love  me  now,  dear?" 

"I  do — I  can — I  have  for  a  long  time,  Dan.  But 
it  took  something  like  this  bad,  adorable  man-child 
of  yours  to  reconcile  our — our  grandfathers.  And 
you'll  promise  me,  Dan,  when  we're  married,  we'll 
talk  over  everything  about  Henry?" 

"Everything,  Bab — he'll  be  ours !" 

Hugo  entered  upon  a  scene  that  caused  him  to 
clear  his  hotel-accustomed  throat ;  and  at  his  heels 
there  trailed  a  seedy  boy  whose  cheeks  were  glassy 
with  kitchen  soap  and  whose  hair  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  combed  with  a  match. 


246  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I'm  glat  you  come  to  fetch  Jim,"  the  large,  solid 
man  explained.  "Sooch  a  leedle  shaver  shouldt  not 
vork.  But  he  vas  a  spunky  leedle  divvil — sure 
Mike!" 

"I  want  to  apologise,  Henry,"  said  Daniel  Plo- 
thier,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Forgit  it,  Dad!", replied  Plothier  Junior,  with  a 
wholesome  grin.  "I  got  my  two  dollars  ofFn  the 
boss!" 


XIV 


In  the  library  of  the  Shelter  for  the  Innocents  a 
worldly,  kindly  little  man  sat  groaning  over  a  litter 
of  unassorted  cards  at  a  table-desk.  The  girl  in  the 
pink  waist  was  beside  him,  uttering  complicated 
figures. 

"The  righter  we  are,  the  wronger  we  are — pic- 
ture puzzles — pigs  in  clover.  Beware  the  explosion 
of  a  patient  man !"  He  swept  the  addled  pile  aside 
and  tilted  back  in  his  chair. 

"By  the  way,  Miss  Crowell,"  he  said,  "will  you 
bring  me  the  cards  in  the  case  of  Tom  Anderson  and 
Henry  Anderson?" 

The  cards  were  brought  and  laid  on  the  desk, 
right  and  left. 

"Now,  I  want  you  to  take  the  family  record  of 
Tom  Anderson — sober  Scotch  Presbyterian  parents, 
perfect  ancestry — and  copy  them  on  a  card  labelled 
'Henry  Anderson/  whose  parentage,  as  you  see,  is 


Can't  Get  Away  from  Grandfather     247 

correctly  recorded  as  'dubious/  I  am  going  to  give 
Henry  Anderson  a  clean  record." 

"You  mean "    Miss  Crowell  hesitated. 

"For  my  own  purposes — an  experiment  in  benev- 
olent psychology,  you  might  call  it — I  have  told  a 
certain  story  to  Henry  Anderson's  adopted  parent. 
It  has  succeeded  splendidly,  I  understand,  so  the 
incident  is  closed." 

"Then  which  of  these  cards  records  Henry  An- 
derson's true  parentage?"  enquired  the  young 
woman. 

"This,"  said  the  Doctor.  And  he  laid  his  finger 
on  a  pile  of  cards  describing  the  shameful  exit  of  an 
alcoholic  scrubwoman. 

"I  bet  he  had  a  bully  grandfather,"  he  mused,  "or 
Francis  Galton  is  a  fraud." 


THE  TORPEDO 


THE  Great  War,  which  had  brought  desola- 
tion and  exhaustion  upon  the  European 
Continent,  had  been  silent  now  for  several 
years.  An  elderly  Irish  baronet,  standing  at  the 
rail  of  an  East-bound  British  liner,  surveyed  the 
pale  blue  ocean,  tranquil  under  a  summer  sun.  They 
were  due  at  Oueenstown  by  four;  and  as  a  sort  of 
sentimental  duty  the  grey-haired  passenger  exam- 
ined his  watch.  It  was  half -past  two  o'clock — al- 
most the  exact  hour,  and  they  were  sailing  over  the 
waters  where  the  Saturnia  lay  sunken. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow.  "If  this 
is  Sir  Robert  Malloy,  I'd  like  to  ask  you  a  question." 

He  turned  his  keen  eyes  and  beheld  a  young  man 
leaning  against  a  life-boat. 

"Fm  sorry  to  intrude,"  the  interloper  explained, 
"but  I  almost  have  an  excuse.  I  was  on  the  Satur- 
nia when  she  was  torpedoed,  you  see.  I'm  an 
American  and  I  saw  my  mother  drown — right  be- 
fore my  eyes  when  the  small  boat  overturned."  He 
hesitated,  after  the  manner  of  one  who  recites  an 
old  bereavement. 

"Is  there  something  you  wanted  to  ask?"  en- 
quired Malloy  kindly. 

248 


The  Torpedo  249 


"Yes,  sir.  It's  like  this.  I  know  you  were  very 
close  to  the  English  Admiralty  office  at  the  time  the 
German  submarines  did  the  dirty  job.  And  I 
thought  you  might  tell  me  one  thing  that  has  al- 
ways puzzled  me.  Why  did  the  captain  of  the 
Saturnia  take  it  into  his  head  to  slow  down  at  the 
particular  spot  where  the  Boches  could  torpedo 
her?" 

"That,"  replied  Malloy,  "was  all  threshed  out  in 
the  investigation.  I  think  the  records  are  on  file 
in " 

"They  don't  explain  anything !"  the  American 
scoffed.  "It  was  a  game  of  button,  button,  who's 
got  the  button.  Engineer  blamed  fireman,  fireman 
blamed  conductor,  conductor  blamed  train-de- 
spatcher.  There  was  no  reason  for  that  ship  to 
loiter,  that  any  one  revealed.  I  have  always  wanted 
to  know " 

."The  rules  of  the  sea  are  complicated,"  observed 
Sir  Robert. 

"Yes.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I've  always  thought 
Sir  Morgan  Carsovan,  who  was  at  the  head  of  the 
Admiralty  at  that  time,  never  got  what  was  coming 
to  him." 

Sir  Robert  Malloy  smiled  tolerantly.  A  shade 
too  tolerantly. 

"And  where  in  the  world  did  Carsovan  disappear 
to?"  the  persistent  interviewer  went  on.  "British 
statesmen  don't  walk  off  the  face  of  the  earth." 


250  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Why,  you  read  about  his  retirement,  about  that 
time,  didn't  you  ?"  Malloy  enquired. 

"I  know.  But  retirement  doesn't  blot  men  out 
of  existence.  At  least  in  America 

A  party  of  ladies,  passing,  beckoned  the  distin- 
guished Irishman  from  his  dialogue. 

"Maybe  you'd  better  look  under  the  letter  'C 
in  the  Encyclopedia  of  Ex-Celebrities,"  he  laughed, 
as  he  departed  with  a  haste  which,  the  American 
thought,  was  not  unwilling. 


ii 

That  moment  in  the  late  winter  of  1913  when 
Alma  Oldenbourg  paused  in  front  of  the  trim,  grey 
building  in  the  Wilhelmstrasse,  meant  a  long  jour- 
ney for  her.  She  lifted  her  large,  rather  greenish 
eyes  to  the  number  over  the  door,  then  peeked  into 
her  purse  to  verify  the  address.  She  smiled  a  little 
nervously  at  the  sweetness  of  the  thrill  that  passed 
through  her;  had  she  not  sworn  it,  standing  like  a 
soldier,  hand  upraised,  "soul  and  brain  and  body" 
in  the  service  of  her  Kaiser?  And  now  she  was 
hesitating  womanishly  on  the  brink  of  the  great 
adventure. 

The  orderly  at  the  door  regarded  her  curiously,  so 
she  no  longer  hesitated,  but  handed  him  her  card. 

"To  see  Captain  von  Halden,"  she  said. 

"This  way,  Fraulein,"  he  directed.   Passing  down 


The  Torpedo  251 

the  narrow  corridor,  through  a  door  to  the  right, 
she  came  upon  a  large,  bleakly  furnished  room ;  and 
under  a  photographic  group  of  his  famous  duelling 
corps,  sat  her  cousin,  stout,  square,  his  bullet  head 
so  closely  shorn  that  the  redness  of  his  complexion 
flamed  through  the  prickly  blond  hair.  He  raised 
small  eyes  which  showed  the  blue  gleam  of  steel- 
tipped  bullets. 

"Alma!"  he  said.  "Ah!"  He  arose,  clicked  his 
heels  and  extended  a  big  palm,  his  gaze  the  while 
roving  over  her  in  a  fashion  which  plainly  said, 
"Here  is  a  pretty  object — how  can  we  use  it?" 

"Cousin  Otto!"  cried  she,  smiling  archly  as  she 
took  his  hand.  "One  walks  into  your  great  dragon's 
den  merely  by  presenting  a  card." 

"You  were  sent  for,"  replied  von  Halden,  un- 
smiling, because  the  jokes  played  by  his  department 
were  usually  of  a  deadly  nature.  "But  ach  him- 
mel!  How  it  becomes  you  to  be  a  woman  grown!" 

"Have  I  aged  so  ?"  she  pouted  while  her  cousin's 
appraising  look  passed  over  her,  taking  in  her  small,  • 
graceful  figure,   lingering  in  a  heavy  satisfaction 
upon  her  pliant  mouth  and  the  elf-curl  of  red  hair 
above  brows  that  tilted  upward,  always  challenging. 

"Aged — no!"  he  responded  solemnly.  "Twenty- 
eight  is  not  that." 

"Twenty-nine,  Herr  Captain,"  she  corrected. 

"You  have  reached  the  age,  and  the  time  has 
come  in  the  world's  history  when  you  have  the 


252  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

privilege  of  serving  your  Kaiser."  Von  Halden 
spoke  with  formal  earnestness. 

"So  I  have  been  called?"  she  asked,  all  piquancy 
gone  from  her  face. 

"You  have  not  forgotten  the  vows  you  made 
twelve  years  ago?" 

"One  does  not  forget — that,"  she  said  gravely. 
"A  great  many  things  have  happened  to  me — but  I 
have  always  remembered." 

"Ah.  You  have  seen  life,  Mrs.  Anderson?" 
He  leaned  forward  with  a  ponderous  smile,  but 
the  young  woman  faced  him  squarely. 

"Call  me  Alma  Oldenbourg!" 

"So  you  have  quit  the  English  Captain?"  Brutal 
questions  were  a  fine  art  in  the  secret  service,  and 
Otto  von  Halden  used  the  weapon  advantageously. 

"That  drunkard!"  She  brought  down  a  small 
heel  as  she  sat  working  her  fingers  into  the  uphol- 
stered arm  of  her  chair. 

"I  know."  Otto  nodded  with  the  assurance  of 
one  who  had  the  biography  of  every  German  sub- 
ject, revised  to  date,  in  his  card  library.  "Nobody 
ever  thought  you  would  like  him." 

"I  have  my  family  to  thank  for  him,"  she  said 
bitterly.  "There  were  better  men  among  our  serv- 
ants. If  I  had  had  a  real  protector  in  the  world 
— a  real  father  to  look  after  me " 

"You  have  a  very  real  father,"  von  Halden  slow- 
ly assured  her.  "Don't  forget  that,  young  woman. 
If  the  good  of  the  Empire  made  it  necessary  for 


The  Torpedo  253 


him  to  drop  you  in  a  bad  hour,  it  is  not  becoming 
that  a  woman  of  your  blood  and  spirit  should  com- 
plain. See  what  he  has  done  for  you !  Up  to  your 
twentieth  year  there  wasn't  an  advantage  of  travel 
or  luxury  denied  you.  Remember  that.  Politics 
are  politics,  my  dear  girl.  And  even  though  he 
doesn't  acknowledge  you,  don't  think  he's  not  watch- 
ing out  in  every  way " 

"To  marry  me  to  another  detestable  person  ?"  she 
enquired  scornfully. 

"Alma,"  Captain  von  Halden  resumed,  after  per- 
mitting her  a  moment  in  which  to  govern  herself, 
"'do  you  love  the  greatness  and  glory — and  the  fu- 
ture of  your  Fatherland?" 

"I  love  nothing  else,"  she  replied,  her  strange 
eyes  flaming  suddenly.  "It  is  everything  to  me." 

"Good !  You  have  spoken  like  a "  He  was 

about  to  name  the  great  family  from  which  she  had 
sprung  so  unwelcomely.  "And  now  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  why  they  mated  you  to  your  Englishman." 

Her  elfin  brows  tilted  an  interrogative  degree 
higher. 

"There  was  no  particular  reason  for  him,  indi- 
vidually." Otto  aimed  at  her  the  steel  tips  of  his 
eyes.  "Any  Englishman  would  have  done.  Do  you 
see?" 

"I  can't  say  I  do,"  she  admitted.  In  retort  he 
raised  his  voice  to  the  scolding  pitch  which  was, 
with  him,  a  professional  mannerism. 

"Stupid    child!      Can't   you   understand?      The 


254  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

League  chose  Anderson  for  you.  You  were  to 
marry  an  Englishman,  not  so  much  to  know  him  as 
to  know  others  of  his  countrymen." 

"Then  my  sacrifice  began  years  ago/'  she  re- 
flected. "How  useless  it  was!  I  never  met  many 
Englishmen  after  my  marriage." 

"But  before — you  knew  several  before?"  he  cross- 
questioned  eagerly. 

"Several,"  she  agreed. 

"Yes.  And  you're  a  very  pretty  woman,  Alma. 
You  studied  in  England,  too." 

The  young  woman  winced  under  his  approval, 
which  was  like  that  of  a  stock-dealer  at  a  county 
fair. 

"Wasn't  there  one  Englishman  especially  smitten 
— back  in  those  days?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  she  shrugged.  "I  flirted— I 
suppose  they  all  said  they  loved  me.  Perhaps  I 
was  in  love  with  one  or  two  myself." 

"Let's  speak  English,"  suggested  von  Halden, 
beaming  his  satisfaction  as  he  addressed  her  with 
an  accurate  London  accent.  "You  haven't  forgot- 
ten their  names,  I  take  it?" 

"My  memory  is  sound  in  spite  of  my  advancing 
years,"  she  smilingly  assured  him  in  the  same  lan- 
guage. 

"Superb!"  grinned  Otto.  "Your  English  is  yet 
better  than  mine.  And  now  I  will  show  you  a  pic- 
ture." 

Briskly  he  drew  from  his  desk  a  square  of  card- 


The  Torpedo  255 


board.  Alma  looked  at  the  photographic  group  at- 
tached thereto  and  beheld  some  two  dozen  figures, 
partly  in  English  and  German  naval  uniforms,  part- 
ly in  the  long  coats  of  ceremony. 

"English  attaches  and  Parliament  members  visit- 
ing Kiel  last  spring,"  tersely  announced  the  secret 
service  officer.  "Have  you  ever  been — well,  ac- 
quainted— with  any  Englishman  in  that  group?" 
His  gaze  alternated  between  the  mounted  photo- 
graph and  the  travelling  eyes  of  the  woman  who 
leaned  over  it. 

In  a  moment  she  had  fixed  her  attention  upon  a 
lean,  frock-coated  figure  to  the  right  of  the  group. 
The  long  face,  earnest  and  scholarly  in  spite  of  the 
frivolous  twist  of  small,  waxed  moustaches,  gazed 
out  at  her  in  a  way  which  seemed  to  claim  for  him 
a  certain  distinction  among  the  merely  official  faces 
around  him. 

"He  has  grown  a  moustache !"  was  her  first  com- 
ment. "He  looks  very  little  older." 

"Then  you  do  know  him!"  Captain  von  Hal- 
den's  lips  smacked  as  with  the  taste  of  rich  beer. 

"He  was  one  of  those  I  knew  best,"  she  admit- 
ted archly.  "A  very  charming  man." 

"I  know  all  this,"  the  secret  service  agent  admit- 
ted. "I  am  glad  you  picked  out  the  man  in  the 
picture.  This  makes  your  work  simpler." 

"I  am  to  deal  with  him?"  she  asked. 

"That's  why  you  were  sent  for,"  he  answered. 
"Your  friend  there  is  one  of  three  men  in  line  for 


256  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

one  of  the  most  important  cabinet  positions  in  Eng- 
land— the  supreme  position,  in  case  of  war.  Un- 
less the  signs  fall,  he'll  accept  the  portfolio.  Do 
you  see,  then  ?  Here  is  one  who  must  be  taken  care 
of." 

"How?"  asked  Alma  Oldenbourg,  her  peculiar 
eyes  studying  the  photograph. 

"He  is  now,  we  are  informed,  taking  a  short  rest 
on  the  Riviera.  His  address  is  'Riviera  Palace, 
Cannes/  You  are  ordered  to  go  there  and  renew 
an  old  acquaintance.  The  object  is  to  be  as  close 
to  this  man  as  possible  and  for  as  long  a  time  as 
possible." 

"Why?"  She  stood  twisting  the  picture  irreso- 
lutely between  small,  gloved  hands. 

"Are  you  ready  to  repudiate  the  vows  you  made 
your  Kaiser?"  von  Halden  questioned  sharply,  in- 
tolerantly. 

"  'Soul  and  brain  and  body'  "  came  like  a  refrain 
to  her  ears  before  she  found  voice  to  answer  him. 

"I  shall  follow  him  as  you  say,"  she  replied. 
"What  then?" 

"That  you  will  leave  to  our  office.  We  will  tell 
you  fast  enough  when  the  time  comes,"  said  Otto 
brusquely.  "You  are  to  go  as  an  Englishwoman, 
to  follow  him  to  London.  And  you  will  be  respon- 
sible for  orders  to  the  number  Seventeen." 

"Seventeen,"  she  repeated  mechanically.  "About 
money.  You  must  know  I  have  nothing." 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  said  Otto  von  Halden. 


The  Torpedo  257 


From  a  wallet  he  counted  out  twenty  five-pound 
notes  and  laid  them  on  the  desk  before  her.  "Eng- 
lish currency,  you  see,"  he  explained.  "You  may 
expect  as  much  to  be  supplied  you  monthly,  wher- 
ever you  are." 

"No  further  instructions?"  asked  Alma,  rising. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Anderson,"  was  his  reply, 
in  a  formal  tone. 

"Good  morning,  Captain  von  Halden."  Her  feet 
had  touched  the  ornate  blue  tiling  by  the  door  when 
she  hesitated  and  half  turned. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  hurled  roughly  at  her. 
"Not  afraid  of  the  risk!" 

Her  eyes  had  deepened  to  emeralds  and  her 
smooth,  high-boned  cheeks  were  radiant  with  colour 
as  she  turned  upon  him. 

"Risk!"  she  laughed.  "My  dear  cousin,  I  love 
it!" 

in 

Her  recognition  of  the  man  in  the  photograph 
simplified  matters,  as  Cousin  Otto  had  told  her.  She 
had  taken  passage  to  Cannes  and  put  herself  to  the 
task  of  stage-managing  an  accident.  She  did  it 
well.  Rising  out  of  a  Riviera  garden  like  some 
suavely  petalled  flower,  she  stood  in  the  tender  glory 
of  the  morning  that  mellowed  upon  the  delicate 
pink  of  her  summer  gown.  An  avalanche  of  camel- 
lias tumbled  down  the  terraces  all  around  her;  the 


258  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

sea  was  indigo  beyond  the  solid,  glossy  foliage  of 
ilex.  No  one  could  have  told,  from  the  unconscious 
air  with  which  she  breasted  the  fragrance  of  a 
young  day,  that  the  tall  man,  alone  behind  a  news- 
paper, at  a  table  on  the  terrace,  held  any  claim  to 
her  attention. 

As  a  matter  of  truth,  Alma  Oldenbourg  had 
sensed  the  heart-thump  of  the  hunter  as  her  eyes 
first  lit  upon  her  quarry,  thus  exposed  and  within 
easy  range.  It  was  so  that  she  had  wished  to  meet 
him;  and  guessing  from  old  experience  his  restless 
habit  of  breakfasting  like  an  American  savage,  sit- 
ting upright  at  a  table,  she  had  foregone  her  well- 
loved  bedside  coffee,  had  dressed  and  waited  here  a 
hungry  hour  until,  at  last,  she  had  seen  him  strid- 
ing among  the  tables  on  the  terrace. 

A  waiter,  observing  the  young  woman's  critical 
review  of  the  arrayed  and  shining  linen,  came  for- 
ward and  indicated  a  table  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
group,  decorously  placed  for  a  lady  alone. 

"del!  There  in  the  sun?"  she  asked  irritably  in 
French. 

The  servant,  humbled,  let  her  have  her  way  and 
she  chose  a  place  convenient  to  where  the  news-de- 
vouring Englishman  sat.  His  face,  she  noted,  was 
lined  and  careworn  as  he  persisted  in  his  abstrac- 
tion, utterly  oblivious  of  anything  more  animated 
than  the  print  before  him.  After  a  minute  Am- 
broise,  the  celebrated  captain  of  waiters,  approached 
and  leaned  deferentially  over  the  gentleman's  chair. 


The  Torpedo  259 


Like  a  gifted  sleight-of-hand  performer,  Ambroise 
bore  in  his  left  hand  an  orange  of  splendid  pro- 
portions, and  in  his  right  a  sharp  silver-bladed  knife. 
And  as  he  chatted  affably,  he  executed  the  marvel 
for  which  he  was  famed — namely,  to  peel  the  or- 
ange with  one  twist  of  the  knife  and  never  break  the 
perfect  spiral  of  the  falling  rind. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  he  was  saying.  "The  gar- 
dens are  very  beautiful  now.  You  have  seen  the 
striped  camellias?  You  would  do  well  not  to  miss 
them.  Ah,  they  are  exquisite  along  the  west  walk. 
Yes,  monsieur,  you  will  find 

"Ambroise !"  She  had  raised  her  light  voice  to  a 
little  complaining  trill.  "You  are  provoking,  never 
to  do  an  orange  so  well  for  me.  Yesterday  you 
broke  the  skin.  To-day  you  do  not  even  pay  any 
attention " 

Sir  Morgan  Carsovan  cast  an  annoyed  glance  to- 
ward her,  held  the  look  an  instant,  then  permitted 
his  newspaper  to  go  fluttering  to  the  floor.  The 
recognition  was  sudden  on  his  part;  and  as  to  Alma 
Oldenbourg,  her  face  betrayed  a  sort  of  cpnfused 
pleasure. 

"Alma !"  he  cried,  coming  toward  her  on  his  long 
legs.  "I  say,  this  is  a  bit  of  luck !" 

"Morgan !  How  in  the  world  could  it  have  hap- 
pened? And  I  completely  mad  with  loneliness — 
you  welcome,  welcome  ghost!"  Her  face  beamed 
the  joy  she  felt — truly  felt,  for  she  had  not  consid- 


260  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

ered  how  glad  she  would  be  to  re-encounter  this 
girlhood  romance. 

"It's  jolly  pleasant  to  be  haunting  this  garden/' 
he  declared,  regarding  her  with  more  earnestness 
than  the  speech  called  for.  She  sat  wondering  what 
his  verdict  would  be. 

"You've  changed  a  trifle,"  she  admitted. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed.  "I  thought  you'd  notice  it. 
They  all  do." 

"I  didn't  mention  anything." 

"You  needn't  have.  But  it's  there  nevertheless. 
It's  the  sort  of  disease  that  should  be  diagnosed  by 
a  preacher,  I  fancy — psychological  hookworm."  He 
laughed  and  showed  deep  lines  between  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth  and  the  lobes  of  his  nose. 

She  regarded  him  sharply  before  she  spoke. 

"Have  I?" 

"Changed,  you  mean?" 

She  nodded. 

"You've  grown  to  be  a  woman,"  he  announced 
admiringly. 

It  was  almost  a  literal  translation  of  what  her 
cousin  Otto  had  said  to  her.  But  from  Morgan 
Carsovan  she  regarded  it  as  quite  the  reverse  of 
offensive. 

"And  oh,  let's  have  breakfast  together,"  she 
cried.  "The  heavenly  coffee — I  smell  it.  And  com- 
pel wretched  Ambroise  to  cut  my  orange  as  he  did 
yours — without  maiming  the  poor  thing." 


The  Torpedo  261 


"The  poor  Ambroise?"  enquired  Carsovan  with  a 
laugh. 

"The  poor  orange,  monster!"  she  retorted. 

"You  can't  know  how  it  bucks  me  up  to  be  with 
you!"  he  declared;  and  certainly  his  face  had  lost 
its  gloomy  cast  of  early  morning. 

"Tell  me  everything,  every  chapter,  paragraph, 
comma  of  your  life  since  you  cruelly  deserted  me 
for  another.  You  wrote  me  for  a  year  or  so,  then 
some  other  enchantment  claimed  your  pen.  At  any 
rate,  you  stopped.  Was  it  because  I  married?" 

"Perhaps.  Or  because  I  did."  He  resumed  the 
tired  voice  which  was,  in  her  estimation,  the  domi- 
nant change  in  him. 

"Oh!    I  didn't  hear.    Was  it  Lady  Ann?" 

"Yes,"  he  nodded,  and  stopped,  then  added — 
"We're  no  end  good  friends." 

The  chastened  Ambroise  had  laid  an  orange, 
peeled  to  the  perfection  of  his  art,  on  the  plate  be- 
fore her.  She  was  looking  down  at  her  breakfast, 
making  no  further  effort  to  talk,  when  he  enquired, 

"Your  husband — is  he  with  you  ?" 

She  laughed. 

"His  name  is  with  me,"  she  said.  "The  rest  of 
him  has  gone  the  way  of  worthless  men.  He  was 
very  bad."  Her  tone,  limping  slightly  under  its 
shade  of  foreign  accent,  was  childishly  naive.  "And 
he  went  away  to  America." 

"America!"  He  was  looking  moodily  over  the 
waters  of  the  Mediterranean.  "What  a  place  for 


262  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

broken  Englishmen !"  He  said  no  more  but  steadily 
regarded  the  sea  beyond  the  ilex  shadows. 

"Morgan!  You're  not  discouraged !"  Her  hand 
moved  toward  him  in  a  movement  suggesting  a  sort 
of  protective  pity. 

"I've  been  whining,  haven't  I?  What  a  slacker 
you  must  think  me!  One  doesn't  do  that  sort  of 
thing,  does  one?  This  isn't  my  usual  matin  song, 
Alma,  you  understand.  But,  my  word!  you  do 
have  a  way  with  you." 

"Poof,  dear  Morgan,"  she  said  impulsively  and 
gave  his  hand  a  little  pat. 

"It  seems  a  bit  fanciful,  coming  out  of  the  blue 
like  this  after  we've  been  ten  years  apart,"  he  per- 
sisted, just  as  the  waiter  came  between  them,  lay- 
ing on  their  plates  a  golden  omelette  aux  -fines 
herbes. 

"Yes  ?"  she  encouraged,  raising  a  dainty  fork. 

"I've  often  thought  of  the  way  I  used  to  open 
my  heart  to  you  on  every  subject  under  the  sun — 
love,  sport,  the  land  tax,  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  How  I  blabbed  out  a  bit  of  everything! 
Never  since  have  I  met  a  chap  I  could  confide  in  as 
I  did  in  you — lucky,  too,  or  I  shouldn't  be  in  pol- 
itics." 

"Weren't  we  brats — then?"  she  trilled  when, 
breakfast  finished,  they  were  sauntering  down  the 
terrace. 

They  walked  slowly  among  the  twisted  trees,  Car- 
sovan  chatting  on  with  a  boyish  enthusiasm,  Alma 


The  Torpedo  263 


lending  so  sympathetic  an  ear  as  to  span  as  by  magic 
the  decade  since  they  had  met. 

"And  you  always  were  ambitious/'  she  exclaimed. 

"I  was  a  brat,  as  you  said,"  he  replied,  enthu- 
siasm dying.  "How  old  I  must  be  growing !  Last 
week  I  heard  a  piece  of  news  that  should  have 
brought  me  up  standing.  Instead  it  left  me  lying 
on  the  broad  of  my  lazy  back,  planning  my  farm  in 
America." 

"What's  come  over  the  man?"  she  queried,  sol- 
emn eyes  and  laughing  lips. 

"Mildew,"  he  replied,  then  with  a  sudden  whimsi- 
cal, twisted  smile,  "Alma,  I  declare,  I'm  wretchedly 
in  love  with  you  again !" 

"Morgan,  Morgan!"  She  keyed  her  voice  to  a 
note  of  amused  scolding.  "You  lost  your  opportu- 
nity ten  years  ago." 

"Pshaw!  I  wasn't  responsible  then.  A  man's 
not  out  of  the  nursery  until  he's  thirty.  Also,  I 
wasn't  quite  my  own  master " 

"You  left  me  to  go  tagging  after  Lady  Ann," 
she  laughed. 

"I  have  an  appointment  with  a  bore  at  ten,"  he 
announced  abruptly,  coming  to  his  feet  as  he  con- 
sulted his  watch. 

"Shall  I  see  you  again?"  she  asked  timidly,  giving 
him  her  hand. 

"At  three  o'clock?"  he  ventured.  "Shall  we  mo- 
tor out  to  Grasse?" 

"At  three,  I  shall  be  so  glad!     Morgan,  a  good 


264  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

angel  has  sent  you  to  me,"  she  declared,  as  he  de- 
parted. Her  tone  was  light,  but  as  she  watched 
his  long  figure  striding  away,  she  hoped  fervently 
that  he  would  never  come  back,  that  some  accident 
of  fate  would  intervene  to  save  him  from  the  mine 
she  had  come  to  lay  for  him. 


IV 

They  were  rolling  smoothly  along  the  old  Roman 
road  between  Cannes  and  Grasse,  dealing  in  pretty 
impersonalities ;  the  sliding  silver  shadows  on  olive- 
grown  hills,  the  wonder  of  Corsica,  hanging  like  a 
ghostly  amethyst  on  the  blue  horizon — island  that 
had  changed  the  face  of  the  world  by  sending  one 
son  across  that  smiling  stretch  of  waters ! 

"The  sea!"  said  Sir  Morgan.  "What  a  world  of 
bother  it  has  been  to  us  poor  mortals." 

"Poetically?" 

"Politically,"  he  replied  with  equal  brevity. 

"Morgan,"  she  began,  looking  slantingly  up  at 
him.  "You're  worried.  You  talk  as  though  the 
sea  were  your  personal  responsibility." 

"You  flatter  my  conceit." 

"Seriously.  You're  letting  your  new  cabinet  ap- 
pointment weigh  too  heavily." 

"What's  this?  Who  told  you  I  had  a  cabinet 
appointment?"  He  faced  about  and  put  the  ques- 
tion sharply. 


The  Torpedo  265 


"Oh,  I'm  sorry !"  She  looked  truly  contrite.  "I 
never  for  a  moment  imagined  that  I  was  intruding 
on  a  secret.  You  told  me  you  had  received  the  best 
news  in  the  world — and  for  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment of  your  ambition  and  prospects — Oh,  please 
don't  scold  me!"  She  put  forth  her  hand  in  a  way 
that  never  failed  to  mollify  him. 

"I'm  scolding  myself,"  he  apologised. 

"Some  one  ought  to  read  you  a  lecture,"  she  per- 
sisted. "There's  surely  something  wrong  with  your 
soul.  The  youngest  man  in  the  British  cabinet,  ap- 
pointed because  of  your  brilliancy  and  success,  you 
should  be  jubilant — you  would  be  forgiven  for  an 
unbearable  vanity.  Yet  here  you  sit  questioning 
the  winds  like  a  blighted  Hamlet." 

"Psychological  hookworm,"  he  smiled  wearily. 

"Poor  boy!  You  do  need  pulling  together,"  she 
mused. 

"See,  we're  getting  on!"  he  explained,  sinking 
back  into  his  British  reserve  as  he  pointed  out  the 
little  houses  closely  dotting  the  slopes.  "We'll  soon 
be  in  Grasse.  You've  been,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  for  years.  Oh,  wonderful!"  She  uttered 
a  little  scream  of  delight,  beholding  troups  of  chil- 
dren bearing  great  baskets  of  red  and  purple  petals 
toward  the  old  Parfumerie  which  gives  the  world 
its  essences.  They  were  threading  now  among  low, 
brick  buildings  whose  cool,  black  courts  and  mossy 
entrances  were  touched,  dazzling  bright,  with  occa- 
sional shafts  of  sunlight.  The  air  was  honey-sweet 


266  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

with  the  attar  of  blossoms.  Women  and  girls,  in 
the  dark  building  which  Alma  and  her  companion 
entered,  were  squatted  around  a  big  cotton  sheet 
into  which  they  were  strewing  prodigious  heaps  of 
rosy  petals. 

"Not  a  man's  work — roses,"  she  laughed,  noting 
his  abstraction. 

"No.  Steel  is  more  in  our  line/'  said  he,  grim- 
ness  settling  upon  his  long  features.  She  studied 
him  closely,  and  again  it  came  over  her  how  much 
there  had  been  to  like  and  admire  in  this  man  as 
she  had  known  him  before.  The  charm  he  had 
once  held  for  her  had  changed  in  the  flux  of  years. 
Had  it  still  a  drawing  power  for  her?  .  .  .  The 
heavy  fragrance  of  roses  was  creating  a  rich  spell 
in  her  blood;  and  the  cold  passion  of  patriotism 
seemed  to  fade,  momentarily,  into  the  colours  of 
life. 

"Let's  go  into  the  hills,"  she  said.  Soon  they 
had  taken  an  upper  path  and  had  seated  themselves 
on  a  stone  where  they  could  look  down  on  low  roofs 
through  the  silver  canopy  of  olives. 

"Has  Lady  Ann  done  anything  for  your  ca- 
reer?" she  asked,  studying  him,  her  pointed  chin 
in  her  hand. 

"One  doesn't  blame  his  failures  to  his  wife,  does 
one?"  he  parried. 

The  woman  wondered  at  her  own  impertinence 
as  she  continued  to  analyse. 

"You  speak  of  a  lack  in  you.    Where  is  it  ?    Me- 


The  Torpedo  267 


diocrities  aren't  hoisted  into  cabinet  positions  at  the 
age  of  thirty-eight.  Morgan,  my  dear,  in  a  fort- 
night every  chancellery  in  Europe  and  America  will 
be  speaking  of  you  as  they  do  of  the  British  Gov- 
ernment. If  the  brutalities  of  life  have  hurt  and 
crippled  you" — here  her  voice  was  lowered  to  a  be- 
witching sweetness — "I'm  sorry.  I  know  that  ache. 
But,  ah!"  She  reached  across  and  twitched  him 
gently  by  the  elbow.  "You  need  shaking,  my  boy ! 
Don't  sulk  under  canvas,  my  poor  Achilles !" 

"You  are  dosing  me  with  Shorter  Catechism, 
aren't  you?"  His  grey  eyes  brightened  whimsi- 
cally. "I  say,  Alma "  He  cleared  his  throat. 

"Yes?" 

"If  I  could  have  that  sort  of  lecture  once  a  day, 
during  my  encumbency  of  office!" 

"A  lecturing  stenographer?" 

"Friend,  I  should  call  it,"  he  answered  seriously. 

"Between  men  and  women  that's  ridiculously  dif- 
ficult," said  she.  "If  I  were  the  adventuress  type, 
now " 

"There !  I  have  made  a  mess  of  it,"  he  exclaimed, 
flushing  in  the  schoolboy  fashion  she  recalled. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  take  you  up  short,"  she  re- 
lented. 

"I  don't  believe  you  know,"  said  he  quietly,  "how 
close  you  grew  to  me  during  that  year  at  Oxford." 

"You  have  made  your  own  life,"  she  tempor- 
ised. 

"You  could  remake  it  for  me,  I  think.    I  should 


268  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

like  to  feel  you  in  the  air ;  to  know  you  were  within 
cabbing  distance  of  the  office  where  I  worked." 
They  were  silent  for  a  while,  then  he  said,  "Alma, 
do  you  know,  before  I  met  you  this  morning,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  refuse  that  portfolio?" 

"Oh!  You  aren't  going  to  think  of  such  a 
thing!"  Her  light,  excited  tone  cut  the  stillness 
of  the  grove. 

"Not  now,"  he  assured  her,  smiling  for  the  first 
time.  "You  have  put  new  fight  in  me.  And  if  I 
could  talk  with  you  every  day — by  Jove,  I  could 
rule  Britannia!" 

She  awoke  to  the  fact  that  her  hand  had  been 
resting  in  his;  and  when  he  raised  it  suddenly  to 
his  lips,  she  arose  and  moved  away  a  step.  Strange, 
emotional  tears  had  risen  to  her  eyes.  Neither  spoke 
for  a  time. 

"Will  you  ever  come  to  London?"  he  was  ask- 
ing. 

"I'm  intending  to  go,"  she  responded.  "I  have 
business  in  London — I  may  have  to  go— I  think  I 
may  stay  for  a  long  time." 

Sir  Morgan  Carsovan  was  called  home  that  eve- 
ning; and  it  was  something  less  than  three  days 
later  that  Mrs.  Anderson's  baggage  was  marked  for 
London. 


It  was  in  the  spring  of   1913  that  Alma  had 
packed  and  followed  the  English  politician  to  Lon- 


The  Torpedo  269 


don.  It  was  on  an  afternoon  in  the  Fall  of  1915 
that  she  sat  in  the  living-room  of  her  flat,  looking 
thoughtfully  out  upon  the  dull  complexion  of  the 
day.  Those  two  years  had  blasted  away  the  old 
stones  of  civilisation ;  and  since  she  had  talked  with 
her  lover  on  an  olive-grown  hill  overlooking  a 
peaceful  industry  of  roses,  Europe  had  felt  the 
prick  of  that  minor  political  murder  which,  through 
a  vicious  tangle  of  bureaucracies,  had  set  a  dozen 
Empires  blood-mad,  had  impoverished  a  world- 
finance,  had  turned  palaces  into  emergency  hospi- 
tals, had  thrown  the  women  of  seven  races  into 
mourning. 

With  fabulous  flying  monsters  of  German  crea- 
tion infesting  the  mid-air  over  English  towns ;  with 
the  Channel  closed  like  a  private  trout  stream,  netted 
with  chains  of  steel  to  fend  off  von  Tirpitz's  school 
of  destructive  pickerel;  with  few  lamps  burning  in 
the  London  streets  at  night,  and  by  day  a  flight  of 
earnest  oratory  on  every  corner,  lashing  half -con- 
vinced patriots  toward  the  colours ;  with  all  her  as- 
pects altered  and  depressed  by  war,  the  London  of 
1915  was  a  city  of  espionage  and  suspicion.  Ger- 
manic people  were  counted  and  vised ;  yet  Mrs.  An- 
derson continued  to  occupy  her  lodgings  in  a  com- 
fortably middle  class  section  of  town,  undisturbed 
by  the  dragnet  which  had  sent  so  many  of  her  com- 
patriots to  the  Tower. 

This  dull  afternoon  found  her  strangely  contented 
with  her  lot — guiltily  contented,  she  felt,  as  she 


270  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

looked  out  into  the  muggy  street  and  awaited  the 
arrival  of  the  man  who,  by  methods  inscrutable  to 
her,  she  had  been  sent  to  ruin.  She  chided  herself 
for  having  permitted  the  sacred  emotion  of  patriot- 
ism to  have  become  so  dim  a  light.  Yet  she  had 
done  dutifully  all  her  Government  had  asked  of 
her;  and  they  had  required  so  sublimely  little. 
Merely  that  she  should  live  as  close  as  possible  to 
the  English  statesman.  Where,  then,  was  the  trea- 
son which  her  Prussian  conscience  would  not  per- 
mit her  to  overlook  ? 

It  had  seemed  so  natural,  so  inevitable,  the  drift- 
ing together  of  her  life  and  Carsovan's.  He  man- 
aged always  to  touch  her  sympathy  somewhere,  and 
her  help  went  out  to  him  impulsively,  without  ef- 
fort. He  had  risen  on  the  wings  of  her  inspiration ; 
he  could  not  get  on  without  her.  And  what  about 
herself  ? 

For  these  two  years  no  word  of  any  kind  had 
come  from  the  Wilhelmstrasse.  Regularly,  on  the 
second  of  each  month,  a  typewritten  envelope  had 
come  to  her  by  express.  It  had  always  contained 
twenty  five-pound  notes.  She  was  going  it  alone, 
she  felt ;  and  she  realised  how  little  she  had  accom- 
plished. There  were  Germans  about  her,  keenly 
watching,  that  she  was  sure.  Only  a  few  weeks 
before,  when  she  had  ridden  to  the  stable,  a  little 
groom  who  addressed  her  in  a  Cockney  twang,  had 
stupidly  insisted  on  putting  her  horse  in  the  wrong 
stall. 


The  Torpedo  271 


"He  goes  in  stall  Twenty,  I  believe,"  Alma  had 
said. 

"Oh,  no,  y'r  lidyship — Seventeen,"  the  small, 
wizened  man  had  replied  distinctly.  "Seventeen  is 
the  number,  you'll  remember." 

He  had  said  this  looking  her  steadily  in  the  eye, 
and  she  had  suddenly  recalled  Cousin  Otto's  injunc- 
tion, "You  will  be  responsible  for  orders  to  Num- 
ber Seventeen." 

The  groom  had  never  ventured  out  of  his  pro- 
fessional shell,  but  she  realised,  with  a  feeling  of 
impending  drama,  that  she  was  waiting  upon  Re- 
sponsibility. Yet  to-day,  as  she  turned  occasionally 
and  sighed  her  impatience  into  the  face  of  the  Dres- 
den clock  on  the  mantel,  she  was  the  picture  of  any 
woman  to  whom  one  man  means  happiness.  A 
quarter  after  four.  Morgan  should  have  been  here 
a  half  hour  ago.  Again  she  looked  thoughtfully 
out  into  the  street.  The  face  she  showed  was  more 
reposeful,  fuller  and  gentler  than  it  had  been  that 
day  at  Cannes.  Yes,  she  was  too  serene  .  .  .  like  a 
sentry  who  allows  the  warming  influence  of  sleep  to 
steal  through  his  veins  when  the  enemy  is  lurking 
right  over  there  in  the  dark. 

The  door  opened  softly  and  Alma,  caught  un- 
awares, permitted  herself  a  little  cry  of  delight 
as  the  tall  man  who  entered  leaned  down  and  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

"Morgan !  I've  been  watching  so  long.  I  didn't 
see  you  come  up." 


272  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I  came  the  other  way/'  he  answered,  as  he  kissed 
her.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  his  fortieth  year  had 
brought  him  strength  and  that  his  eye  had  learned 
to  take  the  measure  of  the  world. 

"I  walked  over  from  the  Square/'  he  further 
explained.  "My  cab  is  waiting  there  with  some 
luggage  and  a  man  who " 

"Morgan!"  she  exclaimed  sharply.  "Where  are 
you  going?  What  are  you  intending  to  do?" 

"I've  come  to  tell  you,"  he  began  rather  awk- 
wardly as  he  settled  down  on  the  couch  beside  her. 
"My  dear  girl,  things  come  up  now  and  then,  in  our 
line,  which  you've  got  to  take  for  granted." 

"Oh,  let  me  go,  too !"  she  plead,  clinging  to  him 
like  a  small  child.  "We've  never  been  apart,  even 
for  a  day.  Oh,  I  shall  be  afraid !" 

"Leibchen!"  He  never  abandoned  that  blessed 
word  of  cursed  German.  "I  shan't  go  far.  I  shall 
still  be  in  London." 

"But  you're  making  a  frightful  mystery  of  it. 
Why  are  you  taking  your  bags  and  saying  good-bye, 
like  this,  if  you  aren't  leaving  the  city?"  she  en- 
quired accusingly. 

"It's  only  this.  In  these  desperate  times  one  must 
do  peculiar  things.  It  is  important,  for  the  next 
few  days,  that  I  shall  be  absolutely  alone  to  work 
out  my  problems.  There  are  only  two  persons  who 
know  where  I  am  going;  my  second  secretary  and 
Sir  Robert  Malloy.  I  am  taking  Robert  rather 


The  Torpedo  273 


than  an  official  associate,  because  there  are  things 
only  a  friend  can  do  for  one." 

"And  I  can't  even  telephone  you?"  she  askpd. 

"Not  even  that,  my  dear!" 

"Four  or  five  days  without  you."  She  arose  and 
walked  over  to  the  window.  "Oh,  I'm  scared — 
dreadfully,  dreadfully!" 

"My  girl!"  He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant, 
comforting  her. 

"Perhaps  I'm  acting  like  what  you  call — a 
slacker,"  she  told  him.  "But  you  must  remember, 
after  all's  said,  I  am  a  German.  And  the  city  is 
alive  with — with  terrible  things.  Suppose  they 
should  find  me  out.  Only  yesterday  a  great  mob 
gathered  on  Oxford  street,  threatening  to  burn,  to 

tear  down,  to  kill "  Her  face  was  white  with 

the  horror  of  it. 

"There,  there,"  he  reassured  her,  patting  her 
shoulder  gently.  "It's  not  so  bad  as  that.  You're 
always  under  my  protection,  dear." 

"Morgan,"  she  said,  looking  whitely  up  at  him, 
"during  these  years  we  have  been  together,  have  I 
ever  asked  anything  that  would  hamper  you  in 
your  work?" 

"Darling,  you  have  been  the  greatest  help  in 
my  life.  There  is  no  counsellor  in  the  realm  who 
could  have  done  as  much." 

"Ah!"  She  sighed  contentedly  and  closed  her 
eyes.  "And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  drag.  But  oh, 
Morgan!  I  do  so  need  this  one  thing." 


274  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

'The  one  thing  I  can't  give?"  he  asked,  step- 
ping away  from  her.  She  nodded  and  looked  down. 
Carsovan  stood  by  the  table,  abstractedly  fingering 
the  leaves  of  a  magazine. 

"Alma,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  have  always  been 
perfectly  open  and  honest  with  you — too  much  so, 
everybody  would  say.  I  have  ignored  the  fact  that 
you  are  a  German  woman,  because  I  know  you  are 
my  wife  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word  and  can- 
not be  disloyal  to  any  of  my  principles.  Isn't  that 
so?" 

"Yes,  Morgan.     That's  so." 

"And  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  further  trust, 
my  dear,  because  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  nervous 
and  miserable."  He  seated  himself  at  a  small  desk 
in  the  corner,  and,  with  a  stubbed  pencil,  jotted 
a  few  figures  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  This  he  folded 
into  an  envelope  which  he  sealed  and  handed  to 
her. 

"I'll  be  at  that  address,"  he  explained  briefly,  as 
she  took  the  white  square. 

"Ah,  my  man!"  She  clasped  her  slim  arms 
around  his  neck. 

"And  now  I  must  be  going,"  he  said.  "I've 
sealed  the  envelope,  because  there's  no  use  of  your 
knowing,  in  case  you  don't  need  to  know." 

"And  if  I  do?"  she  asked,  searching  his  eyes. 

"Don't  hesitate.  Come — come  direct  as  a  tor- 
pedo," he  jested  bravely. 

He  kissed  her  and  she  stood  leaning  against  the 


The  Torpedo  275 


door  long  after  she  had  beheld  him  disappear  down 
the  winding  staircase. 

VI 

The  little  groom  with  the  Cockney  twang  led  her 
bay  mare  from  stall  Seventeen  next  morning.  His 
own  horse  was  already  standing  by  the  mounting 
block,  she  noticed;  and  as  she  was  about  to  place 
her  foot  in  the  stirrup  the  stunted,  wizened  fellow 
looked  at  her  impudently  and  addressed  her  in  Ger- 
man. 

"Where  has  Sir  Morgan  Carsovan  gone?" 

Alma  had  long  since  realised  that  this  man  was 
from  the  Wilhelmstrasse  office;  but  the  question, 
coming  with  uncanny  conciseness  in  her  native 
tongue,  startled  her  so  dreadfully  that  she  might 
have  fallen,  had  not  the  attendant  grasped  her  nim- 
bly by  the  elbow. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  continued,  in  the  same 
low,  confident  tone.  "Of  course  you  understand 
that  I  am  Number  Seventeen,  here  to  give  you  or- 
ders. Where  has  Carsovan  gone?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied  faintly. 

"Thank  you!"  was  all  he  said  as  he  helped  her  to 
her  horse,  and,  mounting  his  own  cob,  followed  re- 
spectfully in  the  rear.  Her  heart  was  pounding 
desperately  and  she  rode  a  few  brisk  miles  with  the 
feeling  that  the  German  was  behind,  armed  to  shoot 
her  if  she  turned.  At  length,  when  they  had  reached 


276  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

a  quiet  stretch  in  Hyde  Park,  Alma  looked  nerv- 
ously back  and  observed  her  groom  jogging  along 
stolidly. 

"Smith !"    She  beckoned  him  to  her  side. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Speak  German,  please." 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'am?"  he  touched  his  hat  re- 
spectfully. 

"None  of  that,"  she  commanded.  "I  should  like 
to  know  how  you  are  aware  of  Sir  Morgan  Carso- 
van's  movements." 

"It  is  our  business,"  he  replied  in  his  native  gut- 
turals. "And  I  am  to  give  you  your  instructions. 
You  are  to  go  to  Carsovan  at  once,  and " 

"On  whose  authority?"  she  asked  proudly. 

"Captain  Otto  von  Halden's,"  he  replied. 

"Otto !    He  isn't  in  England " 

"Since  the  war  began.  Conducting  our  campaign. 
And  you  are  expected  to  go  at  once  to  Carsovan, 
and " 

"If  Captain  von  Halden  is  here,  I  want  my  in- 
structions from  him,"  she  cried,  panic-stricken  at 
the  crisis  which,  thus  suddenly,  faced  her. 

"I'll  tell  him,"  said  the  groom,  and,  whirling 
his  horse  rapidly,  galloped  away. 

For  two  hours  of  mortal  dread  Alma  Olden- 
bourg  posted  along  the  bridle  paths,  dreading  an 
encounter  with  her  fierce  Prussian  relative,  whom 
her  imagination  pictured  in  every  approaching 
equestrian.  Could  she  be,  she  thought  with  a  sort 


The  Torpedo  277 


of  puzzled  shame,  the  girl  who  once  flamed  with 
nation-love  and  swore  blood-sacrifice  to  her  Father- 
land's ideal?  In  the  fanaticism  of  her  girlhood 
dream  she  had  seen  herself,  in  some  crisis  like  this, 
rushing  eagerly  upon  the  swords  of  martyrdom, 
obeying  blindly  the  call  to  which  she  had  devoted 
her  life  as  unquestioningly  as  a  novitiate  lays  her 
golden  hair  upon  the  altar.  Now  the  time  had 
struck  and  she,  a  timid  rabbit,  was  scurrying  for  a 
cranny. 

The  groom  did  not  come  to  her  again  during  her 
ride,  and  it  was  another  man  who  helped  her  from 
her  horse  at  the  stable.  Her  apartment  was  a  few 
blocks'  walk  away,  and  momentarily  during  her 
stroll,  she  anticipated  the  unwelcome  visage  of  Otto 
von  Halden  peering  forth  from  every  areaway.  Yet 
she  walked  to  her  apartment  unaccosted,  and  many 
hours  passed  in  a  state  of  dreadful  waiting. 

About  three  o'clock  Susan,  the  maid,  knocked  and 
announced : 

"Man  to  mend  the  gas-jet,  ma'am." 

"Send  him  in,"  commanded  Alma,  all  a-tremble. 
And  as  the  rough-clad  workman  slouched  into  the 
room  she  did  not  need  to  look  twice  to  recognise  her 
cousin  under  the  greasy  cap.  He  had  done  away 
with  his  military  moustache  and  his  chin  was 
roughly  stubbled,  but  his  eyes  held  their  native 
gleam. 

"Close  the  door,"  she  said  quietly.  As  soon  as  he 
had  obeyed,  she  asked : 


278  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Otto,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"In  the  first  place/'  he  demanded,  regarding  her 
sternly,  "why  are  you  attempting  to  evade  your 
duty?" 

"I  don't  understand/'  she  parried. 

"Our  man  Schmitz  came  to  you  this  morning  with 
orders.  Instead  of  taking  them  as  you  were  ex- 
pected to  do,  you  have  beaten  about  the  bush  and 
made  it  so  that  I  have  had  to  come  out  in  the  open 
— at  the  risk  of  my  neck." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  she.  "I  was  not  sure  of  your 
man.  How  did  I  know  he  wasn't  in  the  English 
service,  spying  on  me?" 

"Schmitz?"  Otto  barked.  "Didn't  he  tell  you  he 
was  Number  Seventeen?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  questioned 
directly. 

"You  must  go  at  once  to  Sir  Morgan  Carsovan, 
wherever  he's  hidden  himself,  and  get  something 
from  him." 

"Oh!"     She  turned  away. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  that  Englishman?"  Cap- 
tain von  Halden  pinned  her  with  those  twin  bul- 
lets. 

"What  nonsense!  Why  do  you  ask?"  She  con- 
fronted him. 

"How  have  you  gotten  so  close  to  him?  Hein? 
A  man  and  a  woman  together  for  over  a  year — I 
suspect  you  have  carried  out  my  instructions  only 


The  Torpedo  279 


too  well  in  that  matter.  Women  become  senti- 
mental over  jobs  like  this." 

"I  have  had  my  Fatherland  to  think  of,  Captain 
von  Halden,"  she  answered  coldly. 

"So?  I  am  glad  you  have  not  forgotten/'  he 
snapped.  "And  now  your  orders." 

"I  am  to  go  to  Sir  Morgan " 

"Yes.  He  is  somewhere  in  London,  engaged  on 
a  business  of  great  importance  with  nobody  near 
him  except  Sir  Robert  Malloy.  But  you  probably 
know  all  about  that." 

"I  know  absolutely  nothing,"  she  answered  coldly. 

"I  expect  you  to  go  to  him,"  he  went  on,  as  if 
he  had  not  heard  her  reply,  "and  get  away  from 
him,  without  his  knowing  it,  a  bit  of  informa- 
tion." 

"Something  he  is  to  tell  me?"  she  asked,  puz- 
zled. 

"A  code  signal,"  said  Otto.  "Carsovan  and  Mal- 
loy are  working  with  the  Naval  Code  Book.  You 
will  find  it  there  among  his  effects.  You  musn't 
take  the  whole  book,  as  that  would  be  discovered. 
What  we  want  is  page  60,  if  possible.  If  you  can't 
get  that,  there  is  one  signal  you  must  copy.  You'll 
probably  find  it  marked  in  handwriting,  as  Carsovan 
is  too  much  of  a  civilian  to  remember  these  ciphers, 
and  I  am  told  he  scrawls  his  code-book  full  of  ex- 
planations." 

"What  is  the  signal  you  require?" 

"  'Slow  down  to  half  speed,' "   said  Otto  von 


280  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Halden.  "It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you  get  it 
before  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.'' 

"Why  do  you  want  it,  just  now?"  asked  Alma. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  her  cousin  evaded.  "It  is  re- 
quired in  the  routine  of  our  office." 

"It  is  too  late  to  see  him  to-day,"  she  temporised. 

"Nonsense!"  Otto  came  closer  and  grasped  her 
rudely  by  the  arm.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  that 
Carsovan,  wherever  he  is,  is  sleeping  with  his 
work." 

"I — I'm  quite  unaware  of  his  address,"  she  said 
unsteadily. 

"Ah !"  The  German  held  her  with  his  fierce  eyes. 
"This  is  not  the  sort  of  treason  we  condone." 

"He  did  not  tell  me  where  he  was  going,"  she 
parleyed,  half  hypnotised  by  his  undeviating  stare. 

"You  are  lying,"  he  growled.  "Your  country 
and  your  Kaiser  are  calling  you;  and  if  you  fail 
you  may  look  to  the  consequences.  I  myself  will 
see  to  it  that  you  are  given,  with  full  account  of 
yourself,  to  the  English  police." 

"You  wouldn't  dare!"  she  cried,  facing  about. 
"If  I  were  arrested,  you  would  go  with  me." 

"Yes.  And  Sir  Morgan  Carsovan  would  be 
handcuffed  to  the  two  of  us.  He  would  be  served 
the  finest,  I  tell  you,  for  the  English  dearly  hate  a 
traitor." 

"You  must  go  now !"  said  Alma  wearily,  and  she 
went  slowly  to  the  door  which  she  opened  for  him. 


The  Torpedo  281 


"Ten  to-morrow,"  he  said  casually  in  English, 
lest  lurkers  might  hear  too  keenly. 

The  hall  door  had  no  sooner  slammed  upon  Otto 
von  Halden  than  Alma  Oldenbourg  settled  by  the 
window  and  sat  idly,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 
She  remained  a  great  while  unmoving  as  though 
she  had  fallen  into  some  strange  sleep  which  left 
her  upright,  her  eyes  wide  open.  It  was  long  after 
the  street  outside  had  darkened  that  she  stirred  a 
little;  and  even  then  it  was  to  assume  that  attitude 
of  thought  which  is  so  often  merely  the  outward 
form  of  a  distracted  mind.  It  was  not  until,  look- 
ing dully  out  upon  the  heavy  night,  she  saw  a 
shabby  man  shuffle  into  the  light  of  a  shop  window 
at  the  corner  that  she  arose  and  moved  away.  She 
was  in  a  tremble  for  fear  he  would  cross  over  to 
her  door. 

And  yet,  thought  she,  her  Cousin  Otto,  in  his 
fanatical  threats  against  her,  had  been  right.  There 
was  no  justification  for  her  should  she  funk  the 
job  to  which  she  had  voluntarily  set  herself.  She 
had  made  her  vow  years  ago  when  her  Fatherland 
was  smiling  in  the  enjoyment  of  peace  and  pros- 
perity. To-day  her  country's  need  was  pathetic, 
desperate,  terrible.  And  she  had  sworn  it,  "heart 
and  brain  and  body,"  to  serve  her  Kaiser.  .  .  . 

She  had  no  dinner  that  night,  but  lay  for  hours, 
open-eyed,  on  her  bed.  Hours  more  she  sat,  try- 
ing to  think,  losing  track  of  time.  The  city  was 


282  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

very  still  when  the  telephone's  jangling  brought 
her  nervously  to  her  feet. 

"Mrs.  Anderson?"  asked  a  voice  she  recognised. 

"This  is  she." 

"It's  Smith,  m'm.  There's  been  a  bit  of  a  fire 
at  the  steyble,  ma'am — several  'orses  killed." 

"My  Toto!"  cried  she,  thinking  of  her  adored 
mare. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  She's  'urt  some.  Would  it  be 
askin'  too  much  for  you  to  come  round  and 
see " 

"I'll  come,"  she  began  impulsively,  then  checked 
herself.  "I  think  I  had  better  wait  until  morning," 
she  announced  decisively  and  hung  up  the  receiver. 

Sleep  again  was  out  of  the  question.  Smith's 
solicitous  message  was,  undoubtedly,  inspired  by 
Otto  von  Halden  who  wished  to  meet  her  in  some 
quiet  part  of  town  and  renew  his  persecutions.  But 
what  if  poor  Toto  were  suffering  now — her  splen- 
did mount,  the  gift  of  Morgan  Carsovan.  It  was 
like  leaving  a  fine,  generous  friend  to  die  alone. 
Once  she  arose  and  started  to  dress.  Her  intention 
wavered  in  a  moment.  Smith  was  merely  acting 
for  her  cousin,  she  was  sure. 

During  the  endless  reverie  of  that  night  she  saw 
Otto  von  Halden  in  a  new  light.  He  was  treating 
her  cruelly,  yet  was  he  not  wielding  the  cold  steel 
of  heroism?  He  was  here  working  almost  single- 
handed  against  an  entire  nation.  He  was  brave  and 
untiring,  like  his  people,  like  those  tens  of  thou- 


The  Torpedo  283 


sands,  following  other  tens  of  thousands  who  had 
marched  against  certain  death  and  been  blasted  out 
for  an  idea.  She  alone  had  proven  weak  and  cring- 
ing in  the  face  of  duty. 

About  five  o'clock  she  sank  into  a  weary  sleep. 
The  face  of  Otto  von  Halden  appeared  to  her  at  a 
window;  broadly  it  glared  and  blood  had  clotted 
over  his  jaws  from  a  horrible  wound. 

"Don't !"  she  cried,  too  late,  for  he  had  thrown 
some  ghastly  explosive  thing  under  her  bed. 

"It's  only  me,  ma'am, — layin'  down  the  breakfast 
things,"  announced  a  cheerful  voice  beside  her. 
Alma's  slowly  opening  eyes  beheld  the  snub-nosed 
profile  of  Susan,  the  maid. 

"I've  been  dreaming,"  she  said,  sitting  up. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Susan  assured  her.  "But  ain't  it 
gratifyin'-like  to  know  that  nothin'  in  life  is  so  orful 
as  them  nightmares." 

Alma  ate  her  breakfast  dully  and  again  took  up 
the  thread  of  her  miserable  problem.  Otto's  last 
words  had  been,  "By  ten."  It  was  after  eight. 

"I  mustn't  stay  here!"  she  thought  in  a  sudden 
rush  of  terror.  "He'll  come  after  me — I  can't  see 
him!" 

It  was  half-past  eight  when  she  left  the  house. 
Should  Otto  call  and  find  her  away,  she  argued 
vaguely,  he  might  call  upon  some  other  person  to 
carry  out  his  plan.  She  did  not  foster  this  idea 
long;  for  there  came  reeling  toward  her,  from  be- 


284  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

hind  a  building  near  the  corner,  a  slovenly  drunk- 
ard whose  hat-brim  flopped  loosely  over  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  going  now  to  carry  out  orders?"  asked 
Otto  von  Halden's  voice  close  to  her  shoulder. 

"No.  That  is,  I'm "  she  stammered  fool- 
ishly. 

"Getting  closer  to  ten !"  he  grunted.  "Remember, 
if  we  go  to  the  Tower,  Carsovan  goes  with  us." 

"I'll  do  as  you  say!"  she  consented  breathlessly. 


VII 

The  cab  stopped  at  last  before  a  small  house, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  its  ugly  tribe  on  a  mean 
street.  The  door  was  finally  opened  meagrely  by  a 
short,  middle-aged  gentleman  with  eyeglasses  and  a 
small,  grey  moustache. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  told  her.  "The  family  living 
here  is  named  Hughes." 

Alma  knew  this  gentleman  to  be  Sir  Robert  Mal- 
loy,  but  as  he  chose  not  to  recognise  her  she  merely 
persisted. 

"Oh,  Sir  Morgan  will  see  me!"  Her  voice  as- 
sumed its  most  penetrating  key.  "Let  him  have 
my  card,  if  you  please." 

The  door  swung  on  a  wider  arc  a  moment  later. 

"Come  in,"  invited  Sir  Robert  Malloy  coldly. 

In  a  littered,  ugly,  stuffy  room  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  she  found  Sir  Morgan  seated  at  a  shabby  oak 


The  Torpedo  285 


desk,  an  Alpine  avalanche  of  papers  threatening  to 
descend  upon  him. 

"You  shouldn't  have  come,"  was  his  severe  begin- 
ning, as  he  closed  the  door  behind  her.  In  spite 
of  his  unfriendly  greeting  a  sort  of  hunter's  thrill 
went  through  her  at  that  instant,  for  her  roving  eyes 
had  caught,  half  concealed  among  papers  on  his 
desk,  the  treasure  she  had  been  sent  to  steal.  The 
'Book!  There  was  no  mistaking  its  leaden  covers, 
weighted,  in  case  of  necessity,  to  sink  its  secrets  into 
deep  oceans. 

"Oh,  Morgan!''  she  whimpered,  comprehending 
his  look,  "Morgan — they've  found  me — they  won't 
let  me  alone!"  And,  sinking  into  a  chair,  began 
to  cry. 

"Who?"  he  asked,  casting  aside  his  off  ended  mien 
as  he  tried  in  vain  to  draw  her  hands  away  from 
her  eyes.  She  could  not  have  told  him,  even  had  she 
dared,  so  fierce  was  the  fit  of  weeping  that  came 
upon  her. 

"Tell  me,  darling — have  there  been  detectives?" 

She  nodded.  Even  now  she  could  see  how  grave 
and  driven  he  looked,  and  she  bravely  conquered 
her  tears. 

"English  detectives  ?"  he  asked  narrowly. 

"Yes."  She  lied.  An  impulse  urged  her  to  shout 
the  truth,  to  tell  the  plot  that  had  been  laid  against 
him.  But  the  vision  of  Otto  restrained  her. 

"There,  there!"  said  the  Englishman,  smiling 
wanly  as  he  held  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 


286  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"The  bobbies  shan't  worry  you  any  more.  I'll  put 
a  stop  to  that  sort  of  thing." 

"How  can  you?" 

"A  scrap  of  white  paper,"  he  announced  with  an 
artificial  lightness,  fumbling  in  a  pigeon-hole.  Then, 
"What  the  deuce  have  I  done  with  my  cards,"  he 
muttered,  and,  rising,  went  into  another  room.  A 
draft  banged  the  door  behind  him. 

Alma's  courage  returned  as  she  gazed  into  his 
open  desk.  A  corner  of  the  Book  lay  full  in  view. 
This  was  the  instant  .  .  .  noiselessly  she  glided  to- 
ward the  desk.  Miraculously  the  volume  opened 
at  page  60  as  she  slipped  it  out  from  under  cover. 
Something  moved  in  the  other  room.  She  stood 
still  as  a  figure  of  wax.  Then,  when  the  alarm 
subsided,  she  pulled  at  the  tough  page  which  rasped 
frightfully  as  she  tore  it  from  its  binding.  Before 
the  door  opened  again  she  had  crumpled  it  into 
the  bosom  of  her  dress.  As  Sir  Morgan  Carsovan 
re-entered  the  room,  waving  between  long  thumb 
and  forefinger  a  half  sheet  of  letter  paper,  she 
could  see  from  her  chair  that  the  Book  lay,  as  be- 
fore, one  corner  exposed  under  its  shelter. 

"Can't  find  a  thing  in  this  jumble,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, handing  her  the  note. 

"Mrs.  Anderson,  widow  of  Captain  Kenneth  An- 
derson, R.N.,  shall  be  shown  every  attention  and 
courtesy. 

"MORGAN  CARSOVAN." 


The  Torpedo  287 


"And  you're  risking  your  position  for  me!"  she 
cried  in  a  low  tone. 

"We  are  borrowing  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  dear 
girl/'  he  replied  with  that  same  terrible  lightness. 
"Hallo!" 

The  telephone  jangled,  bringing  Carsovan  nerv- 
ously to  his  desk. 

"Yes.  This  is  he.  You've  got  her  by  wireless? 
Good!  Full  speed  ahead?  Rather!  She'll  be  well 
within  the  Zone  by  now.  No  fear,  if  she  keeps  that 
up.  Jove,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  she's  given  me 
a  bit  of  a  turn  this  trip.  Let  me  know  when — yes. 
Good-bye!" 

He  turned  upon  her  a  face  so  beaming  that  it 
seemed  quite  natural  for  her  to  enquire: 

"Is  it  some  ship  in  danger?" 

"Has  been,"  he  informed  her  cheerily.  "Her 
wireless  apparatus  has  been  misbehaving  and  we 
just  got  word  from  her."  He  grinned  comfortably. 
"Going  full  speed  ahead  right  through  the  infested 
spot." 

"Is  she — is  she  the  Saturnia?"  The  name  flashed 
into  her  mind  just  as  she  spoke  it.  The  newspapers 
had  been  full  of  her  peril  for  the  past  few  days; 
accounts  of  German  warnings  sent  her  passengers 
before  her  departure  from  New  York;  rumours  of 
von  Tirpitz's  vengeance  lurking  in  her  course. 

Carsovan  nodded  a  pleased  affirmation. 

"But  isn't  she  in  danger — danger  of  submarines?" 

"Not  if  she  keeps  up  the  clip!"  he  assured  her. 


288  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"Twenty-six  knots  an  hour.  There's  not  one  of 
those  undersea  blighters  that  can  shoot  within  a 
mile  of  her  wake  at  that  speed." 

"But  suppose  something  happened  to  slow  her 
down?" 

"What  on  earth  or  the  waters  beneath  the  earth 
could  slow  her  down?"  he  asked  tolerantly.  "En- 
gine trouble  ?  Poof !  She's  the  greatest  liner  afloat. 
Her  engines  are  like  the  Bank  of  England — never 
fail.  Alma,  what's  ailing  you?  Have  you  friends 
among  the  passengers?" 

"No.  But  the  thought  is  awful.  There  must  be 
a  great  number  of  women  and  children " 

"Nearly  a  thousand,  I  fancy.  They'll  be  singing 
welcome  home  at  Queenstown  by  four  o'clock." 

"I  must  be  going,"  she  said.  And  she  departed 
without  a  word  of  farewell. 

She  gave  the  cabman  orders  to  take  her  to  the 
stables;  and  she  was  no  sooner  settled  among  the 
dusty  cushions  than  she  felt  the  page  from  the  code- 
book  chafing  harshly  against  her  bosom.  So  this 
was  the  tragedy  which  Prussia  had  portioned  out 
for  her.  It  was  nearing  the  hour  of  twelve — and 
by  four  o'clock,  he  had  told  her,  the  women  and 
children  would  be  singing  welcome  home  at  Queens- 
town. 

She  took  the  wadded  paper  from  her  blouse, 
smoothed  out  its  creases  and  made  careful  examina- 
tion. There  were  long  columns  of  figures,  letters 
and  words  jumbled  nonsensically  together.  Here 


The  Torpedo  289 


and  there  along  the  margin  Sir  Morgan's  own  hand 
had  jotted  explanations  in  brilliant  ink.  "Top 
speed" — she  came  to  this  handwritten  note  next  to 
a  complicated  cipher.  "Stand  by  for  orders" — 
"Turn  back"— "Slow  down  to  half  speed"- 

She  read  the  column  twice,  very  carefully,  then 
began  scribbling  figures  on  an  ivory  tablet  in  her 
memorandum  book.  They  were  driving  along  the 
sordid  block  that  fledged  the  stables;  Alma  stuffed 
the  page  back  in  her  dress. 


VIII 

It  was  past  three  o'clock  when  she  paused  in  mid- 
flight  and  decided  to  return  to  Carsovan.  Again 
Malloy  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  so  terrific  was 
the  emotion  which  swept  her  along  that  she  did  not 
see  the  baronet's  disapproving  looks,  vainly  barri- 
cading her  advance.  Straight  up  the  stairway  she 
stormed  and  into  Sir  Morgan's  workroom.  The 
latter  looked  up  in  mild  abstraction  at  her  wild  en- 
trance. 

"Back  again?"  he  gasped,  still  under  the  seda- 
tive influence  of  work. 

"Yes.  I  have  no  other  place  to  go.  I  can't  go 
home — they'd  kill  me.  I've  come  to  you,  you're 
all  my  help,"  she  told  him  in  a  terribly  pinched 
voice  that  seemed  to  creak  somewhere  on  broken 
hinges. 


290  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I  don't  understand,  my  dear,"  he  was  making 
feeble  protest.  She  sat  all  crumpled  up  in  the 
chair  opposite  to  him. 

"Let  me  tell  you,  Morgan — I've  come — I've  come 

"  She  looked  foolishly  away,  groping  for  a 

plausible  thread.  "I  want  you  to  know  that  I'm 
not  what  you  think  I  am.  I  haven't  ever  been — 
not  from  the  day  you  met  me  at  Cannes.  They 
sent  me  to  you  there  from  Berlin — oh,  I  didn't 
want  to,  not  from  the  first!"  she  cried. 

"They  sent  you?"  His  voice  sounded  so  de- 
tached that  she  had  a  miserable  feeling  that  he  was 
thinking  of  something  else,  had  not  heard  her. 

"I  should  have  realised  then  that  I  was  the  wrong 
woman  to  do  it.  It  needed  strength — and,  oh,  Mor- 
gan, I'm  weak!  I  was  under  orders  to  live  close 
to  you ;  Otto  told  me  very  explicitly  to  do  that.  But 
when  I  began  to  understand,  and  see  that  I  was  in 
love  with  you — I  wanted  to  run  away  and  desert 
my  duty." 

"Alma,  you've  got  to  pull  yourself  together  and 
be  clear,"  he  commanded ;  and  she  saw  for  the  first 
time  how  steely  hard  he  was  tightening  his  atten- 
tion upon  her. 

"I'm  trying,  trying,"  she  wandered  on  in  the 
same  aimless  tone.  *'You  see,  it  was  my  duty. 
When  I  was  just  a  young  girl,  shortly  before  I  first 
knew  you  at  Oxford,  I  joined  the  League  and 
swore  it  with  the  others,  to  serve  'Heart  and  brain 
and  body.'  And  when  they  sent  me  out  to  watch 


The  Torpedo  291 


you,  I  thought  I  could  win  a  sort  of  immortality. 
But  I'm  weak,  I'm  weak."  She  repeated  this  de- 
spairing refrain  over  and  over  again. 

"Who  have  been  giving  you  orders?"  His  query 
was  sharply  staccatoed,  but  it  only  brought  from 
her  the  same  irrelevance. 

"I  was  so  happy  with  you.  That  seemed  to  be- 
come my  one  responsibility  in  life — just  to  be 
happy.  I  must  have  forgotten.  Only  yesterday 
they  came  to  me — ah,  Morgan,  I  lied  to  you  when  I 
said  I  was  afraid  of  the  police — they  came  to  me 
and  ordered  me  to  find  you,  and — and  carry  out 
orders " 

His  expression  was  dazed,  grief-stricken, 
alarmed.  At  times  he  looked  at  her  as  though  he 
doubted  her  sanity,  then  a  half-consciousness  of 
what  she  was  trying  to  tell  seemed  to  fall  upon 
him. 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  you  think,  dear,"  she  said 
vaguely.  "I  am  bad;  I  have  lied  and  lived  a  lie 
these  two  years.  But  when  they  asked  me  to  steal  it 
from  your  desk,  I " 

"Steal  what?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

"Your  code-book." 

It  was  as  if  a  poison  arrow  had  caused  him  to 
leap  in  sudden  pain;  and  his  hands  were  on  the 
lead-covered  book  before  he  turned  to  her. 

"It's  there,  you  see — all  safe,  except — oh,  if  I 
could  only  tell  it  as  it  occurred.  You  went  to  the 
other  room  to  do  me  a  kindness.  Just  see  what  a 


292  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

traitor  I  am  to  everything!  You  had  no  sooner 
closed  the  door " 

"Have  you  been  tampering  with  that  book?" 
She  dared  a  look  at  him  and  saw  how  everything 
but  terror  had  fled  his  face. 

"Morgan,  Morgan,  don't  condemn  me  till  you 
know  everything/'  she  plead  in  a  small  voice.  "They 
made  me  do  it.  Can't  I  explain  ?  They  threatened 
to  expose  us,  to  send  us  both  to  the  Tower  if  I 
disobeyed.  It  was  for  you  as  much  as  me  that  I 
acted — don't  look  at  me  so!  See,  I've  brought  it 
back  to  you." 

She  fumbled  in  her  gown  and  handed  to  him  a 
folded  scrap  of  paper.  He  gazed  blankly,  then 
spread  it  open  upon  the  desk  before  him. 

"How  did  you  get  this?"  he  demanded  at  last. 

"I  told  you — I  tore  it  from  your  book." 

"Have  you  shown  this  to  anybody?"  he  asked 
huskily. 

"No,  no,  Morgan — that's  why  I've  come  back  to 
you.  If  they  had  seen  it  I  should  have  drowned 
myself  in  the  river.  But  I  fooled  them — I  fooled 
them!"  she  proclaimed  with  a  sudden  fierce  jubi- 
lance. 

"What  did  they  want  with  it?"  He  laid  his 
hand  carefully  on  the  precious  page. 

"They  wanted  the  'go  slow'  cipher  to  sink  the 
Saturnia.  Don't,  Morgan!"  For  the  man's  body 
seemed  rigid  with  horror.  "Nothing  happened,  I 


The  Torpedo  293 


tell  you.  I  was  too  quick  for  them.  I  saved  your 
ship/' 

"What — could — you — do?"  he  droned  lifelessly. 

"I  copied  another  signal  from  your  book  and 
when  Schmitz  met  me  at  the  stable  I  gave  it  to  him 
and  told  him  it  meant  'Go  slow/  " 

"What  signal  did  you  copy?"  asked  Carsovan 
drily. 

"The  one  you'd  marked  'Full  speed  ahead/  I 
knew  it  would  make  the  Saturnia  go  faster, 
and " 

Carsovan  arose,  spectral  tall,  and  hurled  open  the 
door. 

"Malloy,"  he  called.    "Here,  quick!" 

His  associate  came  bounding  up  the  stairs. 

"Bob,"  asked  Carsovan,  "what  have  you  heard 
from  the  Saturnia?" 

"Nothing  for  half  an  hour.  All  was  well  at  last 
report.  I'm  trying  to  get  the  office  now." 

The  telephone  on  Carsovan's  desk  jingled.  Mal- 
loy held  the  receiver  to  his  ear  only  an  instant,  then 
snapped  it  clattering  back. 

"The  Saturnia  was  torpedoed  at  half-past  two 
and  is  sinking." 

"What  is  it?  What  have  they  done?"  Her 
clear  treble  cut  the  pause. 

"The  Saturnia  has  been  torpedoed,"  said  Malloy, 
turning  upon  her. 

"But  no!  Of  course  it  can't  be — how  could  it 
be?"  She  sat  twisting  one  glove  aimlessly  between 


294  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

frail  fingers.  " Where  did  they  get  the  code  signal  ? 
Not  from  me!  I  told  you  the  truth — I  gave  them 
the  wrong  cipher  purposely.  Oh,  what  have  I 
done?" 

There  was  perfect  calm  in  the  room.  Out  of  it 
at  last  Carsovan's  voice  drawled,  cracked  and  thin 
like  the  deathbed  sarcasm  of  an  old,  old  man. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you've  done.  The  page  you 
stole  from  the  book  was  marked  with  explanations ; 
yesterday's  signals  were  reversed  for  today.  The 
signal  you  saw  marked  'Full  speed  ahead'  was  ac- 
tually the  one  now  in  use  for  'Slow  down  to  half 
speed.'  That's  what  you've  done — sunk  the  Sa- 
turnia." 

Malloy,  his  face  set  to  the  unbending  frown  of  a 
condemning  angel,  stood  in  the  door. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  do  anything?"  he  thun- 
dered at  Carsovan. 

"Nothing,"  Carsovan  answered. 

"Then  I  must,"  said  Malloy  and  left  them  alone. 
Carsovan's  look  was  that  of  a  man  for  whom  the 
future  had  been  burnt  away  by  disgraceful  fires. 
Alma  sat,  faded  and  limp,  like  a  small  pink  rose 
that  had  been  stepped  on. 

And  when  she  spoke  it  was  in  the  childish  plaint 
of  the  weak  and  futile,  world  without  end : 

"I  didn't  mean  to  do  it !    I'm  sorry — sorry " 


THE  IDEAL  GENTLEMAN 


THIS  is  why  Henry  Brown,  valet,  abruptly 
quit  the  service  of  Ronald  Hild,  actor,  for 
whom  he  had  slaved  for  nine  long  years. 

Henry,  tall,  lean,  sallow,  by  race  some  fashion  of 
cockneyised  Latin,  came  late  one  night  to  the  great 
man's  dressing-room  and  revealed  the  cause  of  his 
irritating  delay:  his  wife  had  brought  forth  a  child 
a  week  ahead  of  expectations.  Henry  was  nerv- 
ously elated — something  different  from  the  doglike 
servitor  Hild  had  patronised  these  many  seasons. 

"We're  all  in  the  lap  of  the  gods,"  said  the  pom- 
pous actor  as  he  pencilled  his  lashes.  "Didn't  know 
you  were  married." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  answered  Henry,  doing  homage 
at  his  master's  bootlaces.  "She  was  Miss  Leclaire, 
sir — you  know — she  danced  in  the  notch-gel  scene, 
sir,  before  the  'ouse  of  the  Sultan!" 

"Oh !"  Hild  vaguely  remembered  a  plainish  little 
English  person  who  had  faded  from  view  less  than 
a  year  ago.  "And  what  shall  we  name  the  heir  ap- 
parent— Ronald  Hild  Brown,  perhaps?" 

"Oh  no,  begging  your  pardon,  sir.  I  want  to 
name  him  after  a  gentleman,  sir." 

295 


296  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Hild  turned  from  his  mirror  and  cast  rebuking 
eyes  at  Henry. 

"A  good  name  come  to  me  this  arfternoon,  Mr. 
'lid/'  the  valet  went  on.  "Sam,  the  programme  boy, 
gave  it  to  me  with  some  flowers  to  take  to  the 
'ospital.  Sam  says,  says  he,  '  'Enry,  it's  too  bad 
you'll  be  away  to-night/  he  says;  'it's  going  to  be 
a  great  'ouse.  All  the  swells  will  be  there.  Be- 
cause why  ?  Because  Mr.  Norris  J.  Vanderhuyden, 
from  Newport,  will  be  occupying  Box  A,  with  'is 
party/  Then  the  name  come  to  me  like  a  flash. 
Norris  Vanderhuyden  Brown — that's  the  proper 
title  for  my  boy." 

"Poor  babe!'*  The  actor  made  comic  moan. 
"Blighted  in  infancy !" 

"He  needn't  use  it  all  at  once,  perhaps/'  Henry 
qualified.  "He  could  just  sign  it  'Norris  V./  short- 
like,  American  style.  But  I'm  very  particular  he 
should  be  named  for  Mr.  Vanderhuyden,  because 
that's  the  ideel  gentleman  I  see  him  growing  up  to 
be — used  to  horses,  yachts,  'ighbred  ladies,  every- 
thing that  goes  with  the  part.  The  boy  mayn't  have 
the  means  to  do  all  that,  Mr.  Tld,  but  I  want  him  to 
start  with  a  name  to  admire.  And  he  ain't  going 
to  be  raised  a  servant." 

There  was  an  embarrassed  stiffness  in  the  valet's 
manner  as  he  eased  his  master  into  his  waistcoat. 
"There's  something  else,  sir,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Say  on,  my  boy,"  responded   Hild.     He  was 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  297 

growing  a  trifle  wearied  by  Henry's  confidences  and 
preferred  to  keep  his  mind  on  himself. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  if  you'd  take  it  unkind  if  I 
resigned  my  situation  ?" 

"Going  to  quit  me  ?"  Hild  was  plainly  astounded. 

"It's  not  my  own  initiative,  sir.  You  see,  when 
I  first  began  making  up  to  Miss  Leclaire  that  was, 
she  took  me  for  an  actor,  because  you  was  so  good 
as  to  let  me  come  on  the  stage  wearing  a  turban  and 
say  'Allah !  Allah !'  with  the  mob  in  the  big  Orien- 
tal scene.  Yes,  sir,  I  was  vain-like  and  let  her 
think  I  was  an  actor." 

"And  she  was  disappointed  to  learn  her  husband 
was  a  valet?" 

"Something  awful!  But  it  ain't  her  so  much  I 
mind."  The  man's  pose  was  drooping  and  awk- 
ward. "It's  the  baby.  When  I  first  looked  at  the 
little  nipper  lying  there  all  bald  and  pink,  some- 
thing struck  me  hard,  and  I  says:  'No  child  of 
mine  is  ever  going  to  be  a  servant  or  the  son  of 
a  servant.'  Maybe  you'll  understand,  sir." 

"Hand  me  my  hat!"  commanded  Ronald  Hild. 
"But  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Henry?" 

"I  could  start  very  small,  indeed  I  could.  May- 
be you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  find  me  a  clerical 
situation,  in  the  box-office  counting  tickets,  per- 
haps?" 

Hild  was  plainly  indignant.  He  was  going  to 
lose  a  precious  slave  that  the  world  might  gain  a 
human  being.  Also  the  pathetic  appeal  in  Henry's 


298  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

voice  incensed  him  as  something  unsuitable  to  the 
wooden  life  of  a  valet. 

"Henry/'  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  not  encour- 
aging, "I've  looked  after  you  for  quite  a  while,  and 
I  think  it's  my  duty  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth 
about  yourself.  Don't  harbour  any  foolish  delusions 
about  life.  Do  your  job  and  do  it  well;  that's  all 
God  or  man  can  ask  of  you.  As  a  servant  you're  a 
dignified,  human  item;  as  something  else,  you'd  be 
a  cipher.  Sometimes  I'm  tired  to  death  of  being 
an  actor,  but  I  refuse  to  take  up  law  or  portrait- 
painting.  Simply  because  I'm  trained  for  another 
field.  Think  over  your  talents,  Henry.  You  can 
make  the  greatest  servant  in  the  world,  but  you'll 
never  be  anything  else,  because  servitude  is  blown 
in  the  glass  of  your  character." 

"You  mean  you  can't  help  me,  sir?"  Henry 
Brown's  face  was  very  white,  his  lips  pressed  to- 
gether, his  eyes  lowered. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  my  boy,"  said  Hild  in  a  more 
kindly  tone. 

"Then  I  fear  I  must  give  you  two  weeks'  notice, 
sir." 

"Oh,  go  at  once  if  you  like."  The  eminent  actor 
extended  his  hand  toward  the  doorknob,  but  his 
slave  was  there  as  usual  to  bow  him  out. 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  299 


ii 

The  door  with  the  scratched  panels,  overlooking 
the  third  dusty  flight  in  Mrs.  Macey's  theatrical  es- 
tablishment, had  closed  upon  many  despairs  and 
opened  to  many  revelations.  It  was  nearly  two 
months  now  since  Henry  Brown  had  resigned  his 
valetry.  The  wiry  Mrs.  Brown,  counting  the  birth 
of  her  child  as  a  mere  incident  in  her  life  of  trial 
and  effort,  had  returned  weeks  ago  to  her  nautch- 
girl  allurements  in  Mr.  Hild's  romantic  production. 
Seasoned  to  music-hall  society,  inured  to  hard 
knocks,  she  saw  no  reason  in  the  world  why  she 
should  not  turn  the  care  of  her  baby  over  to  Lyla 
Moore,  an  unemployed  dancing  partner  who  occu- 
pied the  room  next  the  Browns  at  Mrs.  Macey's. 
Meanwhile  Henry's  career  as  a  business  man  had 
added  nothing  to  his  pride  of  hers.  A  friend  had 
helped  him  to  a  chore-boy's  job  in  the  offices  of  a 
gas  company — where  he  had  worked  two  days,  and 
found  himself  at  last  confusedly  facing  the  traffic 
of  Fourteenth  Street,  the  insults  of  an  angry  super- 
intendent ringing  in  his  ears.  He  had  applied  for 
work  as  a  subway  guard,  had  stumbled  through  a 
misty  day  as  supernumerary  in  a  moving-picture 
rehearsal — and  as  a  last  disastrous  adventure  had 
bought  a  gross  of  electric-economy-flatirons,  of 
which  he  had  sold  two  and  smuggled  the  rest  under 


300  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

his  white  enamelled  bed  in  Mrs.  Macey's  boarding- 
house. 

On  a  moist,  depressing  night  in  early  June  he  re- 
turned late.  As  he  grasped  the  knob  of  the  door 
with  the  scratched  panel,  he  could  hear  the  feeble, 
irritating  cries  of  his  child  in  the  next  room,  coming 
brainlessly,  with  the  squawk  of  a  mechanical  toy. 
Martha,  his  wife,  was  sitting  in  a  sky-blue  kimono 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  was  a  very  disagreeable 
woman,  it  struck  him  at  that  moment,  her  scant, 
stringy  peroxide  hair  f  rowsled  down  her  back.  The 
valet  in  him  saw  instantaneously  the  pinched  cruelty 
of  her  face,  the  coarseness  of  her  complexion,  her 
violence  and  fury.  He  said  nothing  at  first,  but 
hung  his  overcoat  on  the  closet  door. 

"Well,"  she  drawled,  after  an  interval  of  provok- 
ing silence,  "back  again!"  Her  round  china-blue 
eyes  regarded  him  scornfully  as  she  spoke. 

"Who's  minding  the  baby?"  he  asked  sharply. 
"Lyla  Moore.     She's  just  stepped  out." 
"What  price  that !"  he  growled,  harking  back  to 
the  water-front  of  Liverpool. 

"Don't  come  the  fatherly  on  me,  Henry  Brown," 
shrilled  the  woman.  "I  don't  see  you  providing 
much  for  care  and  comfort.  Who's  earning  the 
bread  and  butter  in  this  little  home?  If  you  want  a 
fancy  nurse  for  the  baby,  do  it  yourself.  You 
ought  to  know,  being  a  valet  by  trade." 

Without  a  reply  Henry  Brown  strode  into  the 
next  room,  where  he  found  the  plaintive  Norris  V. 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  301 

lying  uncovered  on  Miss  Moore's  three-quarters 
bed.  He  lifted  the  child  carefully  in  his  arms,  and 
the  crying  ceased.  Thus  burdened,  he  opened  the 
door  with  the  scratched  panel  and  confronted  his 
wife.  The  veins  in  the  baby's  white  forehead 
showed  blue,  he  could  see,  and  there  was  something 
precociously  apelike  in  the  sickly  face  which  puck- 
ered under  the  gaslight. 

"Looks  scrawny!''  commented  the  husband. 

"Takes  after  his  father,"  drawled  the  wife. 

"He's  going  to  be  a  heap  better  than  the  old 
man,"  answered  Henry  doggedly  as  he  pressed  his 
burden  tighter.  "He'll  have  a  chance,  he  will." 

"What  chance?  What  chance?"  She  turned  her 
chair  suddenly  and  faced  him  with  all  the  splenetic 
fury  of  a  thwarted  cat.  "When  I  married  you,  I 
thought  you  was  an  actor — a  ham  actor,  perhaps, 
but  something  better  than  a  valet." 

"I  ain't  a  valet  any  more,"  replied  Henry  quietly. 
"I'm  doing  the  best  I  can,"  he  defended  himself. 

"Best  you  can!  Why  don't  you  swallow  your 
servant's  pride  and  go  back  to  Mr.  Hild  ?  He's  will- 
ing to  take  you — he  knows  what  you're  good  for — 
a  valet,  a  flunky." 

"I  won't  do  that."  Henry  Brown's  servile  face 
looked  suddenly  strong  as  he  stood  there  defiantly 
holding  his  child.  "I  told  him  I  wouldn't  be  a  valet 
no  more,  and  so  I  won't.  I  am  proud,  as  you  say." 

"Run  for  Mayor  of  New  York,  if  it  does  you  any 
good!" 


302  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"I've  a  good  situation  offered  me.  It  ain't  what 
you  or  I  wanted,  perhaps,  but  there's  good  wages 
in  it  and  a  chance  to  make  more,  and  I  can  rub  up 
against  important  people  and  look  around  for  some- 
thing better." 

"The  Duke  of  Norfolk  speaks."  She  arose  from 
her  chair,  stiff  and  slovenly  with  the  fatigue  of  her 
night's  work.  "You  can't  fool  me,  Henry  Brown. 
I'm  onto  you,  boots  and  wig.  I  saw  what  you 
brought  into  this  room,  so  sly  and  quiet  last  night." 

"Now,  Martha!"  protested  Henry.  He  was 
white,  and  like  a  man  preparing  for  a  personal  en- 
counter, he  laid  his  sleeping  child  carefully  on  the 
bed.  With  one  indignant  bound,  the  wife  rushed 
to  the  closet.  Too  agile  for  Henry's  obstructing 
hands,  she  reached  into  the  depths  and  dragged 
forth  a  pasteboard  box  which  she  threw  so  violently 
into  the  room  that  it  burst  its  cover,  and  its  con- 
tents were  scattered  across  the  floor.  It  was  a  rum- 
pled dress  suit  which  lay  at  Henry's  feet. 

"You're  going  to  be  a  waiter!"  she  screamed. 
"You're  going  to  be  a  waiter!" 

Henry  Brown  backed  against  the  wall  and  re- 
garded her  for  a  long  time  with  his  pathetic,  intelli- 
gent brown  eyes. 

"What  if  I  am?"  he  said  at  last.  "It's  the  swell- 
est  restaurant  in  New  York — only  temporary,  just 
as  I  told  you." 

"Once  a  flunky,  always  a  flunky,"  quoth  Mrs. 
Henry  Brown,  slamming  the  closet  door.  "Mean- 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  303 

while  you're  broke,  and  I'm  being  both  father  and 
mother  to  your  precious  child.  We  won't  worry 
you  and  your  high  ambition  much  longer.  Me  and 
Lyla  has  signed  a  contract  with  the  Alhambra,  Lon- 
don, twelve  pounds  a  week,  split." 

"Who  takes  care  of  our  baby?"  asked  Henry, 
relaxing. 

"Can  youf"  enquired  his  wife  with  rasping  sar- 
casm. "No !  You  can  fuss  and  rant  all  you  please 
about  his  fine  education,  but  when  it  comes  to  sup- 
plying the  grub,  it's  me  that  does  it.  Go  your  way 
with  those  fancy  dreams,  Henry  Brown!  Work 
your  way  as  high  as  you  please  by  dint  of  your  won- 
derful brain.  Meanwhile  I'm  paying  the  rent  arid 
I'm  boss;  and  I  say  git  out — that's  what  I  say." 

The  woman  had  worked  herself  up  to  a  passion; 
her  scrawny  hair  was  straggling,  her  fair  complex- 
ion violet  with  rage.  Without  a  word,  Henry 
Brown  began  drawing  on  his  faded,  greenish-blue 
overcoat.  His  hands  trembling,  his  dark  eyes  swim- 
ming, he  bent  for  a  moment  over  the  baby  on  the 
bed. 

"Martha,"  he  said  at  last,  "you're  a  good  sort 
when  you  ain't  crusty.  Take  good  care  of  Norris 
V.,  old  girl,  and  when  I'm  up  in  the  world  I'll  come 
over  with  all  that's  needed  and  make  a  gentleman 
out  of  him." 

Mrs.  Henry  Brown,  whose  features  were  set  to  a 
look  of  stony  hate  as  she  stood  before  the  mirror, 


304  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

making  a  show  of  fixing  her  hair  for  the  night,  vol- 
unteered no  comment. 

"And  Martha/'  he  pleaded  timidly,  as  he  laid  a 
hand  lightly  on  her  arm,  "don't  you  ever  tell  him — 
don't  you  ever  let  him  know  his  father's  been  a 
servant." 

"No  fear/'  she  drawled  without  looking  around. 
"I  wouldn't  shame  him  with  it/' 


in 

Many  seasons  ago  Henry  Brown's  wife,  raging 
querulously  in  a  sordid  boarding-house,  had  said 
to  him:  "Once  a  flunky,  always  a  flunky."  She 
was  not  an  educated  woman,  but  certainly  she  was  a 
practical  scholar  of  life;  for  eight  round  years  after 
her  scornful  prophecy  her  ambitious  spouse  was 
found,  more  carefully  dress-suited  now  and  pol- 
ished to  the  uses  of  his  trade,  standing  in  a  group 
of  waiter-captains  just  inside  the  gilt-embowered 
dining-room  of  Tanquay's,  New  York's  most  fa- 
voured restaurant. 

Perhaps  you  were  sufficiently  prodigal  to  engage 
a  table  with  magenta  lights  under  a  Flemish  tapestry 
at  Tanquay's  during  that  period.  If  so,  you  would 
have  encountered  Henry  Brown,  but  not  by  that 
name,  for  the  public  now  addressed  him  as  "Pierre." 
It  was  getting  to  be  rather  the  thing  to  call  for 
Pierre  at  Tanquay's;  he  was  never  officious  and 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  305 

bustling  as  many  captains  of  waiters  are.  He  had 
a  kind  and  modest  way  of  adjusting  himself  to 
your  appetite,  and  although  he  abhorred  the  artless 
feeders  who  insisted  on  onions  with  their  venison, 
yet  even  here  he  made  his  distinctions  in  diplomatic 
shadings.  For  eight  years  Pierre  had  arisen  at 
Tanquay's,  steadily,  easily,  from  'bus-boy  to  cap- 
tain, displaying  always  so  perfect  a  feeling  for  his 
art  that  Alphonse,  the  famous  head  waiter,  had 
twice  recommended  him  to  Mr.  Tanquay  himself. 

Upon  Pierre's  rare  absences  from  post,  the  most 
important  diners  at  Tanquay's  were  getting  into  the 
habit  of  asking  after  his  health.  Fame  can  go  little 
further.  But  had  you  observed  the  human,  unoffi- 
cial, under-the-skin  Pierre  one  November  night  as, 
in  his  public  manner,  he  stood  talking  bad  French  to 
a  group  of  servants  just  inside  the  florid  door  of 
Tanquay's  dining-room,  you  would  have  seen  that 
he  was  neither  a  contented  nor  a  successful  man. 
His  deep-lined,  homely  face,  more  settled  and 
worldly  than  of  old,  held  the  look  of  one  who  is 
mysteriously  ashamed.  In  fact,  Pierre,  the  waiter, 
was  all  very  well;  but  Henry  T.  Brown,  father  of 
Norris  Vanderhuyden  Brown,  had  for  these  eight 
years  been  making  weak  excuses  to  his  conscience. 

To-night,  as  upon  almost  every  night  since  his 
service  at  Tanquay's,  Pierre  was  obliged  to  look 
the  shameful  fact  between  the  eyes.  He  was  un- 
worthy to  be  the  father  of  his  son.  Fate  had 
poured  him  into  a  canal  from  which  there  was  no 


306  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

divergent  stream — and  he  was  making  good  money 
unworthily  in  an  atmosphere  he  detested. 

It  was  rather  before  the  dinner  hour  when  Pierre ' 
stood  thus  in  review  of  his  regrets.  Tablecloths 
were  being  adjusted,  final  touches  being  added  to* 
Tanquay's  excellent  dinner  service.  The  staff  of 
captains  near  the  door  and  a  few  favoured  waiters 
gossiped  and  planned  and  quarrelled.  Alphonse  the 
celebrated  was  not  yet  there  to  marshal  his  forces, 
and  to  this  absence  might  be  attributed  the  general 
laxity  of  discipline  which  caused  'bus-boys  to 
slouch  in  corners,  joking  in  Swiss  German,  and  even 
the  starchiest  captains  to  indulge  in  sly  confidences. 
Suddenly  there  loomed  in  the  doorway  a  Pres- 
ence. All  along  the  line  there  was  a  magic,  psy- 
chological stiffening  into  discipline  as  though  a 
kaiser  had  unexpectedly  ridden  upon  a  trench  and 
found  his  soldiers  shirking  duty.  The  man  at  the 
door  was  short,  stout,  florid  of  complexion  and  at- 
tired in  a  suit  of  pin-check  pattern.  Mr.  Tanquay 
seldom  appeared  in  his  dining-room,  and  his  visits 
were  epochal.  His  small  grey  eyes  swept  the  space 
before  him  and  settled  finally  upon  the  form  of 
Pierre,  standing  with  a  correctly  servile  droop  at  his 
station  beside  the  door.  The  proprietor  crooked  a 
fat  finger,  and  the  hosts  of  servitors  quailed  within 
as  the  one-time  Henry  Brown  stepped  forward  and 
faced  the  man  who  owned  his  destiny. 

/^"Pierre,"  said  Mr.  Tanquay  in  a  quiet  voice,  "Al- 

U)honse  is  no  longer  with  us." 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  307 

"Yes  sir."  The  proprietor  eyed  his  employe 
critically  for  a  look  of  unwaiterlike  surprise. 

"Hereafter  you  will  take  charge  of  the  dining- 
room/' 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Again  the  kingly  eye  of  Mr.  Tanquay  swept  his 
demesne,  and  without  another  word  he  turned  on 
his  heel,  having  thus  lightly  conferred  upon  Pierre 
a  title  which  meant  nobility  in  waiterdom. 

Pierre  stepped  back  into  the  dining-room  and  as- 
sumed his  new  leadership  with  modest  efficiency. 
He  realised  that  the  head  waiter  whose  successor 
he  had  so  suddenly  become  had  earned  as  much  as 
thirty  thousand  a  year  in  tips  and  perquisites — 
the  eminence  of  his  position  had  made  him  famous 
in  two  continents  and  a  man  to  be  envied. 

"Good  evening,  Captain  Annister!" 

A  neat,  slender,  evening-clad  figure,  somewhat 
under  middle  age,  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  to  this 
apparition  Pierre  bowed — if  not  lower,  at  least  with 
more  admiration  than  was  his  wont.  Captain  Ce- 
dric  Annister,  R.  N.  (retired  with  merit),  cast  his 
clear,  grey,  rather  arrogant  eyes  over  the  dining- 
,  room  and  barely  touched  one  tip  of  the  well-twisted 
blond  moustache  which  effectively  divided  his  high- 
bridged,  spirited  nose  from  his  small,  sensitive 
mouth. 

"Good  evening,  Pierre.  A  bit  higher  up,  I  see," 
Captain  Annister  said,  smiling  slightly;  and  Pierre 
knew  that  the  Englishman,  instinctive  to  all  the  arts 


308  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

of  good  living,  had  immediately  sensed  his  promo- 
tion. 

"Yes,  Captain."  Pierre  in  turn  smiled  discreetly 
and  showed  this  favourite  patron  over  to  his  regu- 
lar tabta/directly  beneath  the  wounded  knight  in 
the  G(?thic  tapestry.  A  gilt  chair  was  pushed  re- 
spectfully under  Captain  Annister's  well-clad  knees. 
Almost  reverentially  a  menu-card  was  proffered  to 
this  epicure  who,  although  he  had  frequented  Tan- 
quay's  only  for  a  matter  of  six  months,  had  already 
established  his  prestige.  Pierre's  admiration  for  the 
man  almost  rivalled  his  idealisation  of  that  prince 
of  gentlemen,  Mr.  Norris  J.  Vanderhuyden,  after 
whom  he  had  named  his  son  and  whose  brilliant  so- 
cial career  he  had  followed  eagerly  in  newspapers 
and  restaurant  gossip.  What  won  the  heights  of 
the  waiter's  regard  for  Captain  Annister  was  his 
absolute  taste  in  food  and  drink.  His  palate  was 
attuned  to  the  highest  achievement  in  the  culinary 
art — a  fine  cut  or  a  rare  bird  cooked  with  loving 
regard  for  its  natural  flavour  and  served  without 
the  dishonourable  mask  of  spiced  sauces. 

"The  Southdown  lamb  is  ready  to-night,  Captain 
Annister,"  Pierre  announced  as  soon  as  the  Cap- 
tain was  seated.  "Of  course,  it's  not  on  the  card." 

Annister  looked  at  Pierre  a  moment,  fixedly, 
coolly,  after  the  manner  of  an  officer  inspecting  the 
rank  and  file. 

"I  knew  it  was  due — you  see  I  am  here  to  meet 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  309 

it,"  he  replied  at  last,  never  moving  his  clear,  fine 
eyes. 

"You've  been  quite  a  stranger  lately,  sir.  The 
place  has  missed  you/*  Pierre  was  so  bold  as  to 
venture. 

"No  doubt."  There  was  no  revealment  in  the 
Englishman's  manner  of  reply.  "Benoit  did  the 
lamb  rather  well  when  you  had  it  here  before.  You 
might  serve  with  it  potatoes  the  way  I  fancy  them, 
and  also  French  peas  as  I  have  told  you  to  do  them 
— you  know — cooked  under  glass." 

"Mr.  Tanquay  has  been  very  much  impressed  by 
the  peas,  Captain.  He  has  had  them  named  for  you 
and  put  on  the  bill — petits  pois  Annister." 

"Thank  him  for  me."  He  turned  upon  the  head 
waiter  a  smile  that  was  kindly  patronising. 

"Pierre,  what  sort  of  a  cook  do  you  think  I  would 
make?" 

"Excellent !"  replied  Pierre  solemnly.  "But  then 
a  gentleman " 

"Wouldn't  do  that  sort  of  thing?"  Annister  sup- 
plied by  a  query.  "There  have  been  more  dishon- 
ourable professions.  And  Pierre,  I'll  have  a  pint 
of  my  usual  brand."  The  wine  thus  lightly  men- 
tioned was  from  a  private  stock  of  claret  opened 
only  for  a  few  of  Tanquay's  best  patrons.  "And 
mind  you  don't  boil  it  as  you  did  last  time." 

Pierre  went  about  the  business  of  gratifying  the 
Captain's  wishes  to-night  with  especial  gusto.  In 
his  new  capacity  as  head  waiter  he  felt  a  sense  of 


310  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

increased  responsibility  toward  the  whims  of  this 
polished  worldling  to  whom  his  waiter-soul  ever 
paid  tribute.  His  gentle,  unobtrusive  skill  at  snub- 
bing subordinates  without  waste  of  words,  his  cor- 
rect manner  of  requesting  service,  his  air  of  breed- 
ing and  the  impression  he  so  effortlessly  conveyed 
of  expending  the  interest  from  a  substantial  for- 
tune without  the  braggadocio  of  extravagance — 
these  were  the  merits  which  causedr  Pierre  to  sigh 
adoringly :  "Ah,  there's  a  gentleman !"  And  as  he 
sighed,  he  thought  of  his  son.  / 

The  Captain's  dinner  was  short,  after  the  correct 
tradition  of  a  gentleman  about  to  go  to  the  opera. 
When  coffee  was  at  last  drawn  from  percolator  to 
cup,  the  head  waiter  stood  by  the  Captain's  chair  in 
an  attitude  which  conveyed  something  beyond  mere 
professional  solicitude.  The  epicure  set  down  his 
cup  and  granted  the  man  at  his  side  a  look  of  ap- 
proval. 

"Excellent !"  he  said.  "The  lamb  was  very  good 
— you  might  tell  Benoit." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Pierre,  more  gratefully, 
perhaps,  than  the  compliment  required.  "I  appre- 
ciate that  from  you,  sir — and "  He  advanced  a 

nervous  step  nearer,  for  his  important  patron  had 
paid  his  check  and  was  making  a  movement  as  if 
to  depaj^X^nd,  Captain  Annister,  if  I  might  not 
seem  to  take  advantage " 

"Yes,  Pierre?"  Two  fine  eyebrows  were  arched 
upward. 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  311 

"Would  it  be  taking  too  much  of  your  valuable 
time  if  I  told  you  something  about  myself?  It 
would  be  only  a  minute,  sir."  He  stood  dazzled  by 
his  own  temerity,  realising  how  serious  the  conse- 
quences might  be  for  him  should  this  exalted  being 
choose  to  interpret  this  plea  as  an  impertinence. 

"I  have  a  few  minutes,  Pierre.  What  is  it?" 
Annister  smiled. 

"Alphonse  is  gone,  as  you  noticed,  sir,  and  I've 
been  raised  to  head  waiter  here."  He  leaned  some- 
what closer  and  spoke  rapidly,  but  with  quiet  re- 
spect. "The  rise  is  important  to  me,  because  I'll 
be  rich,  in  a  way,  and  I've  got  a  son." 

"That's  fortunate  for  the  little  fellow,  isn't  it?" 
replied  the  Captain  sympathetically. 

"It  should  be,  but  I'm  puzzled.  You  see,  sir,  my 
whole  heart  and  soul  was  for  that  boy — but  my  wife 
took  him  away  from  me  eight  years  ago  and  I  prom- 
ised her  I'd  never  shame  him  by  seeing  him  and 
letting  him  know  I  was  a  servant  until  I  got  out  of 
this.  His  mother  died  last  fall,  and  he's  now  in 
charge  of  an  actress  living  in  Paris.  I'm  still  a 
servant,  Captain — a  successful  one,  if  I  might  say 
so,  but  still  a  servant.  And  my  kiddie  must  never 
know." 

Had  Captain  Annister  looked  around,  he  would 
have  beheld  the  story  of  all  human  misery  in  the 
man's  face. 

"I  see,"  replied  Annister  without  revealing  any 
emotion. 


312  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

"But  I  want  him  to  be  brought  up  proper.  I 
want  him  to  have  the  right  clothes  and  manner.  I 
want  him  to  have  class,  to  see  everything  and  travel 
with  the  best  people  like  he  had  a  family  to  do  him 
proud." 

Captain  Annister  looked  quizzically  at  the  head 
waiter,  who  had  lapsed  into  embarrassed  silence. 

"You're  in  a  bit  of  a  tangle,  I  take  it,"  said  the 
latter  at  last.  "But  then,  it's  jolly  good  luck  you're 
making  enough  to  support  the  little  nipper." 

"It's  just  that  point  which  is  bothering  me,  sir," 
Pierre  resumed. 

"Oh?"  A  slight  turning  in  the  chair  indicated 
to  the  professional  waiter  that  his  customer  was  im- 
patient to  go.  At  the  risk  of  committing  a  brash 
indecorum,  Pierre  went  on : 

"If  it  wouldn't  be  presuming,  sir,  I  should  like 
to  ask  some  advice  in  regards  to  my  boy." 

"But  what  could  I  do?"  asked  the  Englishman, 
looking  away.  He  was  obviously  becoming  an- 
noyed. 

"It's  only  a  hint  I'm  asking,  and  I  wouldn't 
bother  you,  except  it's  the  sort  of  thing  you'd  know 
better  than  anybody.  You  see  this  sudden  rise  in — 
wages — makes  it  so  I  can  do  a  lot  more,  just  as  you 
say,  sir.  And  I  was  wondering  if  you  didn't  know, 
sir — I  was  wondering  if  you  couldn't  call  to  mind 
some  gentleman  out  of  funds  who  would  undertake, 
for  a  good  salary,  to  go  over  to  Europe  and  make  a 
gentleman  out  of  my  boy?" 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  313 

Pierre's  eyes  were  lowered,  and  lie  was  making 
a  fussy  show  of  arranging  the  table.  His  request 
had  been  horribly  disrespectful — that  he  sensed ;  and 
he  should  never  have  spoken  so,  had  he  not  been 
desperate  with  the  great  sacrificial  passion  of  his 
life.  His  suspicion  was  justified  by  the  way  in 
which  Captain  Annister  took  it. 

'That's  rather  a  queer  thing  to  ask  me!"  he 
drawled,  rising  slowly  and  meting  out  just  fee  from 
the  tray  of  small  change  on  the  table.  Pierre,  as  he 
followed  him  out,  bowing,  saw  a  vision  of  sudden 
disgrace  in  this  calamitous  performance.  This  in- 
fluential customer,  annoyed  by  his  unwaiterlike  con- 
duct, would  report  him  to  the  management. 

"Captain  Annister,  sir,  I'm  sorry/'  he  managed 
to  say. 

"You  needn't  apologise,"  replied  Annister  stiffly, 
and  strode  out.  Pierre  stood  among  his  subordi- 
nates, utterly  forgetting  the  responsibilities  of  his 
position  as  forlornly  he  watched  the  black-clad  fig- 
ure of  the  man  he  reverenced  as  a  superior  being 
disappear  into  the  lobby.  So  deep  was  Pierre's 
despondent  abstraction  that  he  was  not  aware  of 
his  surroundings  until  a  Swiss  captain  of  waiters 
addressed  him  deferentially  in  guttural  French. 

"Captain  Annister  wishes  to  see  you  outside." 

"He  has  already  reported  me,"  thought  Pierre 
gloomily  as  he  followed  his  guide.  "Mr.  Tanquay 
will  probably  be  waiting  there  too,  and  I'll  get  the 
pink  ticket  before  everybody." 


314  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Somewhat  to  his  relief,  he  discerned  Captain  An- 
nister,  swaddled  in  his  fur-lined  overcoat,  standing 
alone  on  the  strip  of  red  carpet  near  the  flower- 
stand.  His  expression,  however,  looked  to  be  one 
of  dignified  severity. 

"Pierre,"  he  said  loftily,  as  soon  as  the  other  had 
approached  with  proper  respect,  "that  was  a  pe- 
culiar request,  now,  wasn't  it — coming  from  a  head 
waiter  on  duty?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  realise  that,  sir,  and  I  apologise 
again."  He  spoke  now  without  any  professional  re- 
serve, and  tears  were  plainly  in  his  eyes.  "I  want 
you  to  see  it  the  way  I  do,  Captain.  The  boy's  the 
only  living  thing  in  the  world  I  ever  loved  or  be- 
longed to." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Pierre,"  drawled  Captain 
Annister  with  his  usual  lofty  expression,  "I've  been 

considering  the  case  very  carefully "  There 

was  a  terrifying  pause  as  though  doom  impended 
for  the  unrighteous.  "I've  been  thinking  your  case 
over,"  he  repeated,  "and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  can  find  the  man  you  want." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Captain!"  mumbled  Pierre, 
giddy  with  the  joyful  surprise  of  it 

"You  want  a  gentleman  temporarily  embarrassed 
for  funds,  as  you  say.  One  who  is  used  to  the 
world,  good  living  and  spending  money  well,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing."  Annister  still  spoke  in  that 
oddly,  constrained  voice. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Pierre  eagerly.     "He  should 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  315 

teach  my  son  how  to  get  on  with  tiptop  families. 
He  should  have  class,  sir." 

"Yes — class !"  The  Englishman  touched  the  vul- 
gar word. 

"Could  you  find  the  gentleman  soon,  sir?"  Pierre 
pleaded. 

"You  can  regard  him  as  hired  on  the  spot,"  An- 
nister  replied  enigmatically. 

"But  Captain,  perhaps  he  might  not  like  the  ar- 
rangement. If  I  might  say  so,  who  is  the  gentle- 
man you  suggest  I  employ  to  tutor  my  son?" 

The  Englishman  fixed  Pierre  with  his  clear,  con- 
descending gaze ;  and  his  answer,  when  it  came,  was 
of  such  a  nature  as  to  shatter  all  Pierre's  precon- 
ceived notions  of  the  law  of  gravitation. 

"The  gentleman  I  have  in  mind,"  said  Captain 
Annister,  "is  myself." 

if 

IV 

The  month  was  December,  and  four  years  had 
elapsed  since  Annister's  peculiar  reply.  On  the 
verandah  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  overlooking  the  bay 
of  Naples,  sat  Captain  Annister  this  afternoon,  in 
riding-clothes.  He  was  tired  to-day,  owing  to  sev- 
eral months  of  hard  campaigning;  and  inwardly  he 
wished  that  the  boy,  Norris  Vanderhuyden  Brown, 
might  continue  his  jaunt  with  desirable  compan- 
ions an  hour  or  so  longer  and  thus  leave  him  peace. 

Casting  indolent  glances  over  the  blue  waters  be- 


316  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

low,  Annister  permitted  himself  a  feeling  of  pride. 
True,  this  wasn't  the  sort  of  work  a  gentleman 
would  choose  as  a  vocation,  but  he  had  fulfilled  his 
office  in  the  highest  spirit  of  honour.  He  had 
worked  four  years  with  the  boy,  had  used  the  nobly 
impoverished  name  of  Annister  in  order  to  intro- 
duce Norris  into  the  best  of  English  schools,  had 
employed  Pierre's  lavish  allowances  honestly  in  the 
places  where  it  would  do  the  most  good,  had  taught 
the  waiter's  son  to  avoid  base  associates  while  shun- 
ning snobbish  ideals. 

This  course  had  cost  Pierre  about  three  thousand 
pounds  a  year;  and  Annister,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
sleepy  Southern  waters,  wondered  if  the  head  waiter 
had  not  received  more  than  hi's  money's  worth. 
br  example,  the  Englishman  had  gone  to  no  end 
of  pains  this  week  to  introduce  Norris  to  little  Lord 
Thornkyl,  through  the  Earl  of  Kraik,  his  father, 
whom  the  Captain  had  known  at  Harrow.  "Not 
included  in  the  contract,"  mused  Annister  with  more 
than  usual  cynicism,  as  he  called  a  waiter  and  de- 
cided that  a  dash  of  brandy  would  add  consolation 
to  the  watery  glass  before  him.  The  sacrifices  he 
had  made  of  his  family  name  were  indeed  a  heavy 
toll  to  pay  for  his  good  living.  Yet  the  boy  Brown, 
irrespective  of  origin,  had  won  his  way  to  the  Cap- 
tain's heart.  Norris  was  growing  up  and  learning 
to  think  for  himself — to  ask  questions.  Questions! 
How  much  longer  could  Annister  continue  with  the 
sophistries  he  had  chronically  employed  to  ward  off 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  317 

the  evil  hour?  At  any  rate,  Norris  must  never  see 
his  father,  must  never  know  himself  as  the  son  of 
a  servant.  .  .  . 

A  small  boy  in  an  Eton  jacket  and  broad  collar 
appeared  through  an  obscure  door  and  gazed  eag- 
erly about  the  verandah.  He  was  a  good-looking 
lad,  with  his  father's  Southern  eyes  and  his  mother's 
English  complexion.  He  bore  himself  well,  confi- 
dently, but  without  a  swagger,  and  when  he  spoke, 
his  words  were  accented  in  the  London  manner. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Ced!" 

"Ah,  Norris !  Sit  down,  my  boy.  Here's  a  letter 
for  you — they've  been  holding  it  with  our  mail  at 
Amalfi."  The  Captain  handed  a  white  square  to 
the  boy. 

"It's  from  Father,"  said  Norris.  These  epistles 
came  at  six-monthly  intervals  and  were  usually 
brief.  Norris  read  this  letter  quietly  and  passed  it 
over  to  his  instructor.  It  was  written  on  plain 
white  paper  of  excellent  quality,  with  the  line 
"Henry  T.  Brown,  New  York,"  embossed  at  the 
head.  The  handwriting  was  of  a  too  businesslike 
correctness,  and  ran: 

My  dearest  son: 

Are  you  well  and  attending  to  studies?  Write 
me  a  lot  more  than  you  do,  because  you  must  re- 
member your  poor  old  daddy's  lonesome  away  off 
from  you  and  wants  to  know  you're  thinking  about 
him  as  he's  thinking  about  you  all  the  time.  I  want 
you  to  mind  Captain  Annister  and  do  everything  he 


318  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

says.  He  is  the  finest  gentleman  I  know,  and  can 
teach  you  all  sorts  of  things  which  will  make  me 
proud  of  you. 

I  want  your  life  to  be  full  of  happiness,  dear  boy 
— not  the  wrong  kind  of  happiness  which  will  bring 
you  into  bad  company  and  low  ideas,  but  the  kind 
that  makes  you  grow  straight  and  not  the  servant 
of  any  man.  Take  plenty  of  exercise  out  of  doors, 
the  way  the  best  people  do.  Learn  how  to  be  good 
to  dependents  under  you  without  giving  in  too 
much.  Keep  your  eyes  always  on  the  finest 
thoughts  and  deeds  and  appearances  there  are  in 
the  world.  Let  people  instruct  you,  my  dearest 
son,  never  forget  and  always  write  to 

Your  affectionate  father, 

HENRY  BROWN. 

"Your  father  loves  you  a  great  deal,"  said  An- 
nister  suddenly,  regarding  the  boy. 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  want  to  see  me?"  asked 
young  Brown. 

He  was  casting  moody  glances  over  the  sea. 

"Well,  laddie,  been  jaunting  about  with  Bobbie?" 
Annister  enquired  lightly,  evasively.  The  Bobby 
referred  to  was  the  young  Lord  Thornkyl. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Ced,"  replied  the  boy  briefly. 

"Hitting  it  off  a  bit  well?" 

"Rather  a  good  sort,"  announced  Norris. 
"Bobby  travels  about  with  his  father  quite  a  bit 
every  year."  His  tone  was  again  sinking  to  the 
minor  key.  "They're  no  end  good  pals.  We've 
been  talking  about  fathers." 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  319 

"Bobby  and  you?"  Annister  pretended  a  vast 
serenity.  The  boy  nodded. 

"Bobby  knows  all  about  his  father.  He  was 
Colonel  in  the  Black  Watch,  and  was  promoted  to 
Major  General  after  the  battle  of  Mafeking.  They 
made  him  an  Earl  in  nineteen  hundred  when  his 
brother  Clarence  died,  and— — " 

"My  word!  What  have  we  here?  The  Alma- 
nach  de  Gotha?"  chuckled  Annister,  but  somewhat 
uncomfortably. 

"Then  Bobby  began  asking  me  about  my  father. 
I  tried  to  think  of  something — something  to  say. 
Uncle  Ced,  I  couldn't  fib  now,  could  I  ?  So  I  just 
told  him  Father  was  a  bit  of  a  top-holer  in  the 
States." 

"Right,  my  boy !"  said  the  Captain. 

"But  he  wasn't  satisfied  with  just  that.  He  said 
Americans  made  money  in  bally  queer  ways,  and  he 
wanted  to  know  how  Father  got  his.  Bobby's  a 
bit  of  a  cad,  /  say!"  the  boy  blurted  out  with  sudden 
petulance. 

"Tut!    Tut !"  the  Captain  admonished 

"And  then  he  wanted  to  know — he  wanted  to 
know — — "  Norris  V.  was  making  manful  effort  to 
suppress  ungentlemanly  tears. 

"Out  with  it,  sonny !"  Annister  urged  in  a  kindly 
tone. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Ced— Father  isn't  in  trade,  is  he?" 
The  question  came  in  a  horrified  half -whisper. 

"In  trade!     Ha!     Rather  not!"     The  Captain 


320  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

leaned  over  and  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder. 

"He  holds  a  very  high  position — er — office  in  the 
States/'  Annister  was  as  glib  as  possible.  "I  don't 
think  it  would  be  going  too  far  to  say  that  he  is  one 
of  the  most  important  men  in  New  York.  It's  a 
bit  hard  to  explain/' 

"Is  he  Lord  Mayor  of  New  York?"  Norris  asked  ...- 
hopefully. 

"Well,  not  that,  just."  Annister  stalled  for  a 
moment ;  then  he  added  as  by  inspiration :  "But  he 
often  entertains  the  Lord  Mayor — mayor  they  call 
'em  over  there — at  his  table.  Your  father's  enter- 
tainments are  famous,  Norris.  The  President  of 
the  United  States,  the  Duke  of  Connaught,  great 
statesmen  and  celebrities — everybody  that  is  any- 
body, I  dare  say,  has  dined  with  your  father  first 
and  last." 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me  that,  Uncle  Ced."  The 
boy  thanked  his  tutor  with  his  expressive  eyes. 
Then  suddenly: 

"I  say,  Uncle  Ced — Father  hasn't  done  anything 
— wrong — has  he?" 

"Have  a  care,  sonny !"  Annister' s  tone  was  genu- 
inely severe.  "That  sort  of  a  thing  isn't  asked,  you 
know." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Norris,  but  he  looked  no  less 
moodily  out  to  sea. 

The   Captain,   mindful   of   the  sacrifices   which 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  321 

father  had  made  for  son,  turned  again  to  his  young 
ward,  this  time  sternly. 

all  honourable  men  I  know,  Pierre  is  -  " 


^ 

he  began,  and  clipped  short  his  words.     The  boy's 

keen  eyes  were  upon  Annister'  s  face. 

"Pierre  !"  Norris  caught  up  abruptly.  The  Cap- 
tain averted  his  glance. 

"Pierre!"  repeated  the  boy  more  questioningly. 
Annister  could  not  meet  the  searching  gaze. 

"Pierre—  Pierre—  ugh  !  Who's  Pierre?  You 
said  that  oddly.  Pierre  !  That  sounds  like  a  head 
waiter.  Half  the  head  waiters  in  the  world  are 
Pierres."  For  a  moment  Norris  paused.  There 
was  a  heavy  silence  before  the  boy  shot  out:  "Is 
my  father  known  as  Pierre,  Uncle  Ced?" 

"Only  to  his  intimates,  lad,"  declared  Annister, 
regaining  himself. 

A  little  longer  those  eyes  lingered  on  the  Cap- 
tain's face  ;  then  Norris  got  up. 

"Pierre,"  he  repeated  once  more  quietly,  and 
walked  away.  ^**** 

Annister  remained  seated  by  his  glass  as  the  boy- 
ish form  disappeared  through  the  small  door.  An- 
nister wondered  if  he  had  not,  in  his  honest,  blun- 
dering English  way,  let  out  the  secret  which  he  had 
guarded  for  years. 

Like  some  genie,  respondent  to  his  thoughts,  a 
servant  appeared  through  the  same  small  door 
which  had  just  swallowed  up  the  boy,  and  laid  a 


322  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

cablegram  envelope  on  the  table  beside  the  Captain, 
who  broke  the  seal  and  read : 

Come  back  with  Norris  immediately. 

PIERRE. 

So  Henry  Brown  had  chosen  to  break  the  wall  of 
silence  between  himself  and  his  son.    Why? 


Mr.  Tanquay,  a  trifle  more  toadlike  of  figure,  a 
carat  more  expensive  of  scarfpin  than  upon  the  day 
when  first  he  tapped  Pierre  for  knighthood  in  head- 
waiterdom,  occupied  broadly,  patiently,  the  chintz- 
covered  rocker  which  he  had  filled  this  long  half- 
hour  since  the  figure  of  Pierre,  stooped,  attenuated, 
bald-headed,  had  followed  a  nurse  behind  the  se- 
cretive mahogany  door  of  Dr.  Bendorp,  fashionable 
specialist. 

Mr.  Tanquay  pulled  his  moustache.  He  was  con- 
science-stricken to  reflect  how  he  had  overworked 
this  important  cog  to  his  restaurant-machine.  .  .  . 
He  hoped  Pierre  wasn't  going  to  be  seriously  ill, 
right  in  the  midst  of  the  big  season. 

Leaning  against  the  bookshelves  near  the  door, 
Mr.  Tanquay  permitted  the  leaves  of  Irving's 
"Sketch  Book"  to  flutter  through  his  fingers.  Cer- 
tainly the  doctor  was  taking  his  time  to  it  in  there. 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  323 

There  were  long  silences,  and  once  he  heard  Pierre's 
voice  speaking  at  length  in  what  sounded  like  a 
pathetic  monologue.  Now  came  the  squeak  of 
casters  rolling  across  the  floor ;  again  there  was  the 
subaqueous  clatter  of  some  instrument  being  soz- 
zled in  water,  then  more  droning  talk. 

Pierre  had  done  enormously  well,  reflected  Mr. 
Tanquay;  he  had  been  an  invaluable  commercial 
asset,  and  this  thought  added  a  glow  of  warmth  to 
his  musings.  His  faithful  head- waiter  had  cleaned 
up  enormously  in  gratuities  these  four  years.  Sly 
old  dog !  What  was  he  doing  with  his  coin  ? 

The  voice  of  the  physician  behind  the  door  rose 
to  a  stronger,  more  authoritative  key;  the  click  of 
steel  against  glass,  too,  became  more  insistent. 
Then  the  door  itself  opened  slowly  at  last,  and 
Pierre,  followed  by  certain  rumbling  instructions 
from  the  dictator  within,  came  forth  into  the  re- 
ception-room. 

"Anything  serious  ?"  enquired  Mr.  Tanquay,  so- 
licitously taking  his  friend's  arm. 

"Doctor's  talk/'  grinned  Pierre.  "Nothing  really 
wrong.  Thinks  I  ought  to  take  these."  He  waved 
a  sheaf  of  prescription-blanks. 

"It's  ten-thirty,"  answered  the  restaurateur. 
"I've  got  a  taxi  outside  and  we  can  get  in  and  spin 
around  the  Park." 

Such  a  diversion  was  a  novelty  to  the  hard  grind 
of  Tanquay's,  and  Pierre  wondered  vaguely  what 
the  proprietor  was  scheming  now.  It  was  not  until 


324  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

their  vehicle  had  rounded  the  turn  up  Fifth  Avenue 
that  the  subject  was  ventured. 

"Brown "  said  Mr.  Tanquay,  using  Pierre's 

genuine  name,  as  he  always  did,  and  laying  a  fat 
palm  on  his  friend's  lank  knee. 

"In  the  first  place,  Brown,  I  want  to  say  it  plain 
and  simple — you're  an  exceptional  man.  That's 
why  I  picked  you  out." 

"It's  very  obliging  of  you  to  speak  that  way," 
Pierre  acknowledged,  but  without  servility,  because 
he  never  forgot  that  Tanquay  had  himself  been  a 
waiter. 

"There's  one  thing  has  kept  me  puzzled  about 
you  for  years."  Tanquay  poked  a  black  cigar  under 
his  moustache.  "You're  a  riddle,  Brown.  Nearly 
all  head-waiters  get  stuck  on  themselves  sooner  or 
later.  In  some  of  them  it's  a  charm;  in  others  it 
gets  to  be  a  positive  nuisance.  In  your  case  I  think 
it  would  add  a  lot  to  your  manner — pride  in  your 
profession,  Brown.  The  biggest  actors  have  it; 
the  leaders  of  society  eat  and  drink  it — why,  look  at 
that  doctor  who  just  soaked  you  ninety  dollars  for  a 
fifty-cent  prescription.  He's  oozing  with  it.  Now, 
why  haven't  you  got  any  of  it,  Brown?" 

"I'm  only  a  servant,  Tanquay."  His  voice  was 
tired  and  sad. 

"Only  a  servant!  Why,  man  alive,  don't  you 
know  you're  the  greatest  servant  in  America? 
Travelling  dukes  and  steel  kings  and  theatrical  man- 
agers ask  for  you  and  won't  accept  a  substitute.  In 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  325 

a  year,  Brown,  I  don't  mind  saying  it  now — there's 
a  chance  for  you  in  the  partnership." 

"In  a  year !"  echoed  Pierre,  and  his  voice  seemed 
miles  removed. 

"In  a  money  way,  you've  cleaned  up  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  have,  during  the  past  season.  The  big- 
gest swells  in  the  land  think  it  the  compliment  of 
their  social  career  to  have  you  bow  to  'em  and  call 
'em  by  name.  Servant!  Why,  Brown,  you're  an 
ambassador." 

"That's  one  way  of  looking  at  it,"  mused  Pierre. 

"I'm  not  criticising  your  style,"  Mr.  Tanquay 
persisted.  "But  I'm  just  suggesting  that  something 
might  get  under  your  skin  and  make  a  lot  more 
money  for  you  and  me.  You're  a  famous  man, 
Brown.  You're  being  watched  and  copied  by  head- 
waiters  in  the  big  European  restaurants.  You  have 
done  more  to  make  Tanquay 's  the  vogue  than 
Benoit's  cooking  or  Lurline  Mahoney's  roof-danc- 
ing." 

Bright  spots  of  colour  suddenly  stood  out  from 
the  pallor  of  the  other  man's  cheeks. 

"And  that's  what  I'm  getting  at,"  Tanquay  re- 
sumed. "This  is  booked  to  be  the  biggest  season 
Tanquay's  has  ever  known.  Not  only  are  we  pull- 
ing most  of  the  official  banquets  away  from  the 
other  fellows,  but  society  is  tagging  us  for  all  the 
swell  private  dinners — <f  you  see?  Christmas  is 
coming  pretty  soon,  and  Santa  Claus  will  have  a 
big  bag  of  tips  for  you,  Brown — more  than  you 


326  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

ever  made  in  your  life.    You're  not  in  the  game  for 
yotjr  health,  are  you,  Brown?" 

I'm  educating  my  son,"  replied  Pierre,  coughing 
feebly.  "I  want  to  be  able  to  put  aside  enough  so 
he  can  live  like  a  gentleman  on  the  interest.  I  think 
I  can  retire  next  spring — - — "  He  checked  himself 
suddenly.  'That  is,  I  hoped  to  quit  that  way." 

Mr.  Tanquay  smiled  a  soft  smile. 

"We've  got  a  prize-package  of  important  dinners 
coming  in  the  next  two  weeks — the  very  finest  we've 
ever  knownx^He  held  up  five  short  fat  fingers  and 
marked  on  with  his  thumb:  "There's  George  L. 
Piper's  dinner  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  on 
Tuesday,  Mrs.  Anglis  Ward's  dinner-dance  Wed- 
nesday; the  Brooks  and  Lonrihans  have  engaged 
accommodations  for  the  latter  part  of  the  week — 
every  night  of  the  week  to  come  taken  by  some- 
thing big." 

"Very  important,"  agreed  Pierre,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  assuming  an  attitude  of  healthful  atten- 
tion. 

"Ah,  Brown,  my  boy!"  The  fat  proprietor 
chuckled  heartily  and  slapped  Pierre  across  his  hol- 
low chest,  "you  won't  call  that  important  when  I 
tell  you  what  we've  got  for  you  a  week  from  Fri- 
day!" 

"The  Democratic  Club's  banquet  falls  about " 

"Democratic  Club!"  jeered  Tanquay.  "Pluto- 
cratic Club,  you'd  better  say.  I'll  give  you  two 
guesses." 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  327 

"Never  mind,"  was  Pierre's  short  reply.  "Who 
is 

lorris  J.  Vanderhuyden — dinner  for  twenty." 

It  was  as  though  a  bomb  had  fallen  through  the 
window  and  burst  in  Pierre's  lap.  His  model  aris- 
tocrat, his  Ideal  Gentleman,  the  personage  for 
whom  his  son  was  named,  would  accept  his  offices 
at  the  most  important  dinner  of  the  year! 

"He  asked  for  you  especially,"  Tanquay  went  on. 
"He  said,  'I  must  have  Pierre  serve  it.  There's  only 
one  Pierre!'" 

"But  he  doesn't  know  me.  I  never  served  him." 
Pierre's  speech  was  short  and  gasping. 

"Everybody  knows  Pierre,"  laughed  Tanquay. 
"And  Brown,  to  have  Mr.  Vanderhuyden  come  like 
this  to  our  place  and  order  a  dinner  for  twenty  is 
the  greatest  compliment  you  or  I  ever  had.  He's 
entertaining  the  Duchess  of  Orncaster.  And  you 
know  what  it  means  to  have  Mr.  Vanderhuyden 
give  a  dinner  at  a  public  restaurant." 

"I  remember  once  he  told  a  reporter  that  a  gen- 
tleman never  dined  more  than  six  people  at  a  public 
place.  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  him,"  murmured 
Pierre. 

"There's  only  one  Pierre,"  repeated  Tanquay 
slowly,  "and  I  want  you  to  see  what  it  means.  I 
want  this  to  be  the  big  event  of  your  life." 

"Yes.  It  will  be."  Pierre  was  himself  again, 
and  something  strangely  more  than  himself^ v^.>^ 

The  car  was  now  warping  toward  the  curb  in 


328  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

front  of  Tanquay's.  The  proprietor  took  the  head- 
waiter  by  an  arm  and  helped  him  down. 

"Working  up  a  little  pride  now,  Brown  ?"  smiled 
Tanquay  as  they  were  parting  near  the  elevator. 

"You'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  much  I  have," 
replied  Pierre,  and  took  the  lift  to  his  office  on  the 
second  floor. 

In  this  businesslike  sanctum,  with  its  rows  of 
letter-files,  its  roll-top  desk  and  clicking  typewriter, 
Pierre  might  have  assumed  the  dignity  of  a  prosper- 
ous lawyer.  Miss  Gilfoyle,  his  stenographer,  was 
copying  menu  cards,  and  on  his  desk  were  many 
opened  letters. 

Pierre,  as  he  sat  himself  down  to  plan  the  day, 
looked  upon  his  office  and  his  desk  and  his  mail 
through  the  eyes  of  a  new  philosophy.  The  letters 
before  him  were  addressed  simply:  "Pierre,  Tan- 
quay's" — and  he  realised  the  sufficiency  of  it,  for 
his  was  a  great  name.  Had  not  that  god  of  his  idol- 
atry, Mr.  Vanderhuyden,  said,  "There  is  only  one 
Pierre?"  Yes.  He  made  those  two  syllables 
famous,  like  a  trademark,  his  trademark,  which  he 
could  capitalise  for  over  forty  thousand  dollars  a 
year.  Even  Vanderhuyden  had  to  say  "Pierre"  to 
get  service  worthy  his  taste — everybody  had  to 
say  it. 

"And  I  am  Pierre,"  thought  the  head-waiter  sud- 
denly, pride  like  a  great  flame  illuminating  that  in- 
ner temple  which  was  his  ego. 

"Miss  Gilfoyle,"  he  said   feebly  to  his  stenog- 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  329 

rapher,  "give  these  to  a  messenger  and  have  them 
filled  at  once."  Vaguely  he  presented  the  prescrip- 
tions which  the  doctor  had  written.  "And,  Miss 
Gilfoyle,  before  you  go,  take  this  cablegram  and 
have  it  sent  to  Captain  Cedric  Annister,  Grand  Ho- 
tel, Naples: 

"  'Come  back  with  N 'orris  immediately/    J 
v  "Sign  it  Tierre/  "  he  added,  and  turned  weakly 
to  his  desk. 

VI 

Captain  Annister  engaged  rooms  for  himself  and 
his  pupil,  and  almost  immediately  thereafter  took 
a  taxicab  for  Tanquay's.  He  found  Pierre,  quite 
naturally,  standing  at  his  usual  place  just  inside  the 
gilt-embowered  doorway,  for  it  was  now  past  the 
luncheon  hour  and  there  was  little  to  do.  True  to 
caste,  Pierre  gave  the  Captain  his  customary  bow 
of  servile  respect. 

"How  are  you,  Pierre?"  asked  the  Englishman, 
looking  around  the  dining-room,  not  a  glance  less 
arrogantly  than  of  old. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir.  You've  been  a  long  time 
away,"  was  Pierre's  typical  rejoinder. 

"You've  redecorated  the  room,"  Annister  ob- 
served. 

"Yes  sir.  Two  years  ago.  Tanquay  fancies  red 
panellings,  sir.  Will  you  have  your  usual  table, 
Captain?" 


33°  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

Captain  Annister  regarded  Pierre.  His  cheeks 
were  drawn  and  careworn,  his  hollow  eyes  eager; 
yet  not  a  word  had  he  broached  about  his  family 
affairs  which  had  brought  Annister  and  the  boy  all 
the  way  from  Europe. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  said  a  bit  more  brusquely. 
"When  can  I  talk  to  you?" 

"In  my  office,  Captain  Annister,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I'll  be  free  in  five  minutes." 

Annister  found  the  office  empty,  the  stenographer 
gone.  He  stood  inspecting  the  businesslike  place 
when  Pierre,  in  much  less  than  the  promised  five 
minutes,  entered  upon  this  inspection. 

"Where's  my  boy?"  he  asked  breathlessly. 

"I've  brought  him,"  said  Annister.  "We're  reg- 
istered at  the  Hotel  Susquehanna." 

"Is  he  well?  Is  he  growing  up?"  came  in  a 
volley. 

"He's  an  exceptionally  fine  lad,  Pierre." 

"Have  you  made  a  gentleman  out  of  him?"  The 
deep  eyes  glowed  hungrily. 

"He  shows  form,  you  might  say,"  Annister  re- 
plied. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  I've  sent  for  you."  Pierre 
plunged  into  explanation.  "Something's  happened 
to  me — going  to  happen — which  makes  it  so  I've 
got  to  see  him  soon  or — maybe  never." 

"Health,  you  mean?"  enquired  Annister  anx- 
iously. 

Pierre  nodded  his  greyish  head. 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  331 

"Heart,15  he  explained,  sitting  down  and  laying  a 
clenched  fist  on  his  left  side.  "I've  had  two  or  three 
spells,  and  they  took  me  to  a  big  specialist  last  week. 
A  man  can't  be  sick  as  I  am  and  be  all  right.  He 
said  I'd  broken  myself  with  hard  work.  Said  that 
with  a  rest  I  might  hang  on  a  year  or  so,  but  that 
I  couldn't  keep  on  at  this  pace.  It  might  strike  me 
at  any  time,  do  you  see  ?  To-night  or  to-morrow  or 
in  a  week." 

"Man  alive,  you're  going  to  rest!"  exclaimed 
Annister. 

"How?"  he  asked.  "Who's  able  to  take  my 
place?" 

"There's  only  one  Pierre." 

Something  almost  majestic  in  the  way  the  man 
took  the  compliment  astounded  Annister. 

"Pierre  has  become  a  name — capitalised,  you 
might  say,"  the  head-waiter  agreed  quietly.  "And 
I  couldn't  lay  off  this  week  or  this  month,  because 
they're  relying  on  me  to  arrange  the  Norris  Van- 
derhuyden  dinner.  It.  will  be  the  greatest  job  of 
my  life." 

"I  saw  in  the  papers  it  was  coming."  Annister 
looked  curiously  at  Pierre.  "And  about  your  son?" 
he  enquired. 

"I'll  tell  you.  All  these  years  I've  kept  him  away 
because  I  was  ashamed  of  my — profession.  But 
the  time  has  come  when  he's  got  to  know  his  father. 
And  I've  chosen  to-night  to  break  it  to  him.  The 
dinner  will  be  in  the  Peacock  Room  on  the  third 


332  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

floor.  There's  an  alcove  at  one  end  with  big  cur- 
tains. I  want  you  to  take  my  boy  up  there,  where 
he  can't  be  seen,  but  can  watch  the  affair.  Don't 
you  see?" 

"Rather — not  exactly,"  said  Annister  in  a  tone 
of  puzzlement. 

"I  think  you  can  understand,  Captain  Annister," 
Pierre  replied  a  trifle  testily.  "You  must  know 
what  my  life-work  means  to  me.  I've  come  up 
from  nothing  to  where  I  am.  I  want  my  son  to  see 
it  that  way,  to  see  me  at  my  best,  managing  the  best 
dinner  in  N.ew  York  for  the  finest  gentleman  in 
America.  This  will  be  the  top-notch  of  my  life- 
work,  Captain,  and  I  want  my  son  to  realise  how  big 
it  is — to  see  his  father  at  the  climax  of  his  career 
and  be  proud  of  him."  Pierre's  eyes  were  shining 
now  with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  dream. 

"Very  good — excellent!"  was  the  Englishman's 
rather  dry  comment. 

"Come  in  at  the  carriage  entrance  at  eight 
o'clock.  You'll  find  a  page-boy  waiting  for  you 
there.  Tell  him  you're  Captain  Annister  and  he'll 
show  you  up." 

"We'll  be  there  on  time,  Pierre,"  Annister  as- 
sured him,  rising  to  go,  for  Pierre  had  turned  to- 
ward his  desk  and  was  already  going  over  the  busi- 
ness of  checking  off  orders  to  the  florist  for  the 
great  Vanderhuyden  dinner. 

"And  Captain,  please!"  There  was  a  touch  of 
the  old  servility  in  Pierre's  voice  as  he  looked 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  333 

around,  a  pathetic  yearning  in  his  gaze.     "Don't 
forget  to  keep  my  boy's  attention  on  me." 


VII 

It  was  eight  o'clock. 

Sitting  in  semi-darkness  behind  the  heavy  cur- 
tains of  deep  blue  velours,  Annister  and  his  pupil 
peeped  forth  into  the  exotic  splendours  of  the  high, 
vaulted  Peacock  Room.  Norris  had,  at  first,  quite 
properly  objected  to  such  a  spying  method  of  seeing 
American  society;  but  the  Captain,  whose  judgment 
he  revered,  had  explained  to  him  that  this  was  a 
necessary  detail  in  his  social  education.  Before 
them,  under  the  blaze  of  light-dripping  chandeliers, 
they  could  see  the  great  oval  table,  showing  a  green- 
ish silk  undercloth  beneath  a  covering  of  Spanish 
lace;  and  on  this  ground  arrayed,  there  glittered 
the  diamond  brightness  of  Tanquay's  celebrated 
crystal.  The  boy's  eyes,  as  he  sat  beside  his  tutor 
in  the  semi-darkness,  were  bulging  with  excitement 
to  behold  this  luxurious  picture,  thrilling  even  to  his 
sophisticated  senses.  The  brilliant  vault  before  the 
observers  seemed  galvanised  with  the  magnitude  of 
the  event  impending.  Subordinates  passed  rapidly 
here  and  there,  casting  keen  professional  glances  at 
each  golden  plate;  a  troupe  of  florists  leaned  care- 
fully across  the  chairs,  massing  a  great  bank  of 


334  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

remarkable  lilies  of  a  species  only  to  be  found  in 
the  Vanderhuyden  greenhouses. 

hen  are  they  coming,  Uncle  Ced  ?"  asked  Nor- 
s  in  an  awed  whisper. 

Hush !    They'll  be  here  soon/'  came  the  reply  of 
the  man  beside  him  in  the  dim  light. 

A  moment  later  they  beheld  a  tall,  gaunt  man  in 
a  dress  suit  at  the  door.  Glancing  once,  eagerly, 
at  the  long  blue  curtains,  he  turned  his  master  mind 
to  the  business  of  the  evening,  causing  the  assembled 
army  of  flunkies  to  stand  at  nervous  attention  while 
he  gave  sharp  instructions,  partly  in  English,  partly 
in  bad  French. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  boy  behind  the  curtain. 

"Why — er — he  is  the  gentleman  who  is  giving 
the  dinner,"  said  Annister. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Ced,  you're  ragging  me,"  laughed  the 
boy.  "He  isn't  a  gentleman.  He's  a  head-waiter. 
He's  got  on  the  wrong  sort  of  cravat,  for  a  gentle- 
man." 

"Well,  he's  giving  the  dinner,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,"  Annister  hedged.  "I  want  you  to  watch 
him  closely.  He's  the  most  famous  head-waiter  in 
America." 

"That  will  be  amusing,  won't  it,  Uncle  Ced?" 
boy's  eyes  were  glued  on  the  door,  for  all  the 
waiters  in  the  room  whipped  napkins  over  forearms 
like  a  comic-opera  chorus  awaiting  the  rise  of  the 
curtain.  Pierre  at  the  door  was  gazing  down  the 
hall,  and  his  watchers  could  see  how  the  movement 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  335 

of  his  eyes  presaged  the  coming  event.  Laughter 
could  be  heard  afar,  outside  the  great  door  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  room;  then  a  company  of  eve- 
ning-clad people  brightened  the  Peacock  Room.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  Captain  Annister,  from  his 
point  of  ambush,  was  amazed  to  see  the  contrast 
between  the  feeble,  ailing  Pierre  of  the  afternoon 
and  the  keen-eyed,  efficient,  affable  director  of  to- 
night. Like  a  corps  of  intelligent  automata,  his 
waiters  had  sprung  to  chair-backs ;  and  Pierre  him- 
self, his  careful  pose  suggesting  capability  in  a 
great  man's  service,  stood  easing  a  chair  under  the 
knees  of  the  handsome,  red-faced,  dissipated-look- 
ing man  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the  tableXlt  was 
easy  to  read  irritation  in  the  pleasure-softened  fea- 
tures of  the  host.  As  he  turned  to  give  his  first 
instructions  to  the  head-waiter  at  his  elbow,  the 
watchers  behind  the  curtain  could  catch  a  querulous 
note.  The  man's  mood  seemed  to  communicate 
itself  to  his  guests,  and  there  was  an  air  of  restraint 
around  the  table. 

"What's  wrong,  Uncle  Ced?"  asked  the  boy. 
"That  chap  doesn't  know  how  to  treat  a  servant." 

"But  the  servant  knows  how  to  treat  that  chap," 
put  in  the  Captain.  Pierre's  manner  in  this  situa- 
tion was  that  of  a  trained  ambassador  soothing  the 
mood  of  a  petulant  prince. 

A  sudden  fear  filled  Annister's  mind  that  this  af- 
fair, almost  deliberately  designed  to  be  the  show- 
event  of  Pierre's  life,  was  in  danger  of  becoming  a 


336  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

wretched  fiasco  before  the  eyes  of  the  person  whose 
esteem  he  most  value^^ 

"Who  is  the  tall  lady  with  the  pearls  ?"  asked 
Norris. 

"The  Duchess  of  Orncaster.  But  look,  my  boy. 
The  head-waiter  is  serving  the  soup.  He's  no  end 
good  form  at  that." 

Although  Pierre  stood  impressively,  gracefully  at 
the  sideboard,  sweeping  his  commands  with  broad 
gestures  of  his  lean  hands  as  his  little  army  ad- 
vanced with  the  precious  liquid  which,  Annister 
knew,  must  have  cost  the  host  something  over  two 
dollars  a  plate,  the  boy  in  hiding  persisted  in  study- 
ing the  gay  oval  of  jewelled  coiffures  and  white 
shirt-bosoms.  In  a  sudden  rush  of  sympathy,  An- 
nister noted  how  flat-footed  Pierre  had  become 
through  continued  years  of  standing  while  the 
gentry  dined,  but  his  manner  of  spinning  toe  and 
heel,  right  about  face,  to  render  new  attention  to 
the  head  of  the  table  and  his  guests,  was  a  classic 
for  aU  head-waiters  to  copy. 
y*W hat's  his  name?"  asked  Norris  finally. 
*  "Pierre,"  responded  Annister. 

"Pierre!"  The  boy  shot  one  of  his  searching 
glances  at  his  guardian,  and  then  for  a  moment  was 
silent. 

"Who  is  the  gentleman  who  is  giving  the  din- 
ner?" he  asked  presently. 

"He's  a  Mr.  Vanderhuyden,"  replied  Annister 
shortly. 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  337 

"Oh,  Uncle  Ced.  That's  my  middle  name.  He's 
in  a  beastly  funk,  isn't  he?" 

The  dinner  went  on  stiffly  for  several  courses, 
Pierre  serving  with  the  precision  of  an  automaton 
but  rewarded  by  scant  courtesy  from  the  head  of 
the  table.  Matters  were  certainly  not  improving 
when  a  bungling  assistant  dropped  a  goblet  directly 
behind  Vanderhuyden's  chair.  The  magnificent 
one  did  not  deign  a  glance  around,  but  even  Pierre's 
arch  diplomacy  could  not  mask  the  pervading  horror 
as  the  fragments  were  being  swept  away. 

"Poor  old  duffer,"  said  the  boy  behind  the  cur- 
tain. Annister  merely  grunted  a  iiepl^X 

"Hush,"  he  said  a  moment  later^or  it  was  ap- 
parent by  an  atmosphere  of  impending  drama  that 
one  of  the  great  ceremonials  in  the  ritual  of  diges- 
tion was  about  to  take  place.  Waiters  were  already 
arranging  themselves  at  the  sideboard.  Through 
the  service  door,  two  uniformed  boys  reverentially 
propelled  a  silvered  wagon  with  an  enormous  dome- 
like cover. 

If  Pierre's  professional  poise  had  been  in  any 
way  disturbed  by  the  earlier  catastrophes  of  the 
evening,  it  was  now  completely  restored;  for  with 
the  flourish  of  a  field  marshal  Pierre  ordered  his 
assistants  to  roll  the  silver  wagon  beside  Vander- 
huyden's  omnipotent  place.  No  hands  but  Pierre's 
were  to  lift  that  domelike  cover.  Pierre  stepped  to 
the  high  ceremony,  leaned  devotedly  and  rolled  back 
the  heavy  lid,  every  one  of  his  ten  fingers  expressing 


338  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

extreme  devotion.  Meanwhile  his  eyes  were 
focused  upon  Vanderhuyden's  face  with  a  solicitude 
that  was  technically  perfect. 

Vanderhuyden,  looking  down,  regarded  the  dish 
critically,  coldly,  arrogantly.  Something  in  the 
wrinkle  of  his  rather  disagreeably  formed  nose 
caused  a  flush  to  mount  to  the  jowls  of  the  Eng- 
lishman observing  him  from  behind  the  curtain. 

"See,  Pierre  is  serving  the  roast/'  he  whispered 
to  Norris. 

Annister  could  see  the  boy's  glance  rove  for  a 
moment  to  the  black-clad  man  at  the  sideboard  who, 
never  descending  from  his  pose  as  a  public  func- 
tionary, yet  laid  the  knife  on  the  tender  meat  with 
all  the  inevitable  science  of  a  practised  surgeon. 
Noiselessly,  swiftly,  he  permitted  the  slices  to  fall 
to  their  proper  plates;  nimble  hands  were  there  to 
bear  away  each  savoury  portion.  Momentary  vi- 
vacity seemed  to  thrill  through  the  room  as  the 
Lucullan  luxury  was  served  to  the  accompanying 
sparkle  of  champagne.  Annister's  eyes  followed 
the  movements  of  Pierre,  who  with  extra  skill  bore 
a  portion  to  Vanderhuyden's  place. 

Everything  within  the  well-bred  Englishman  had 
naturally  revolted  at  the  gaucherie  of  this  man 
whom  he  had  heard  so  broadly  advertised  as  a 
model  for  the  American  haut  monde.  But  Vander- 
huyden's conduct  now  raised  the  Captain's  blood 
to  boiling  point.  Without  taking  the  trouble  to  lift 
knife  or  fork,  the  great  man  sat  staring  at  the 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  339 

Southdown  lamb  as  if  the  slaughtered  animal  itself 
had  done  him  a  personal  insult.  The  guests  were 
chaffing  idly  among  themselves.  The  Duchess  of 
Orncaster  was  flirting  with  the  man  to  her  right. 
Waiters  were  passing  sauces  around  the  table.  Sud- 
denly out  of  the  polite  orderliness  of  the  room,  a 
high,  petulant  whine  arose  in  a  half  falsetto. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Pierre!" 

£  "Yes,  sir!"  Pierre  was  standing  at  Vanderhuy- 
den's  elbow.  His  pose  was  technically  correct,  but 
Annister  could  not  overlook  the  suggestion  of  an 
added  droop  to  his  already  sloping  shoulders. 

"Pierre/'  began  Vanderhuyden  in  a  voice  so 
strident  that  not  even  his  most  polite  guest  could 
escape  overhearing.  "Pierre,  what  does  this  mean?" 
He  held  up  his  plate. 

"Isn't  it  as  you  like  it,  sir?"  asked  Pierre,  taking 
one  edge  of  the  plate  with  gingerly  fingers. 

"No,"  he  said  abruptly;  and  turning  to  the  Duch- 
ess :  "I  must  apologise  for  Pierre  to-night." 

The  woman  turned  compassionate  eyes  upon  the 
head-waiter,  who  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown 
fifteen  years  older.  "I  think  everything  is  beauti- 
fully done,"  she  replied,  addressing  Pierre,  " — ex- 
cellently served." 

Pierre  moved  his  lips,  but  no  words  came.  "I 
wish  you'd  tell  Tanquay,"  pursued  Vanderhuyden, 
wriggling  around  in  his  chair  to  face  Pierre,  "what 
I've  just  said.  I've  taken  great  pains  to  raise  this 


34°  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

mutton  for  my  table.  This  is  the  second  time 
there's  been  some  kind  of  a  substitution." 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir/'  interrupted  Pierre  humbly. 
"I  saw  it  arrive  myself  Tuesday.  It  was  on  the 
Baltic  under  your  own  seal." 

The  boy's  eyes  and  Annister's  were  fastened  upon 
Pierre.  At  that  moment  his  whole  frame  seemed  to 
weaken  as  under  an  insidious  blow.  Norris'  hand 
pressed  on  the  Captain's  sleeve:  "I  think  he's  ill, 
Uncle  Ced,"  he  whispered.  "Can't  we " 

"Hush!"  said  Annister,  patting  the  boy's 
shoulder. 

Vanderhuyden's  rasping  voice  reached  the  pitch 
of  self-satisfied  egotism.  "Pierre,"  he  went  on,  "I 
want  you  to  understand  you  can't  foist  this  sort  of 
thing  upon  discriminative  people.  Remove  the 
plates,  please." 

"I  think  I  can  get  you  a  better  cut,"  persisted 
Pierre,  and  not  to  be  daunted  in  the  pride  of  his 
profession  and  in  his  pride  for  Tanquay's,  he  turned 
soldier-like  upon  his  heel  toward  the  silver  wagon. 
Assistants  had  supplied  another  plate.  Poising  his 
knife  with  the  most  delicate  precision,  Pierre  se- 
lected two  morsels  of  the  precious  meat,  laid  them 
upon  the  plate,  surrendered  his  carving  tools  ma- 
jestically to  subordinates;  and  it  was  a  momentarily 
revitalised  Pierre  who  began  a  stately  progress  to- 
ward his  patron. 

He  had  gone  five  steps.    A  few  yards  from  Van- 


The  Ideal  Gentleman  341 

derhuy den's  elbow,  he  was  seen  to  flag,  pause,  half 

totter 

"What's  up?"  breathed  Annister  behind  the  cur- 
tain. The  boy's  clutch  tightened.  Pierre  was  the 
vision  of  a  stricken  man.  His  thin  knees  gave;  his 
body  quivered,  every  muscle  tense  and  tortured  as 
though  by  a  high  electric  voltage.  The  plate 
crashed  from  his  hand,  and  his  body  after  it. 

As  if  by  magic,  the  room  had  been  cleared  of  its 
guests.  A  knot  of  waiters,  the  house  physician, 
Tanquay  himself,  were  gathered  around  the  long 
and  prostrate  form  upon  the  floor.  Behind  the  cur- 
tain the  boy  was  struggling  against  Annister's  re- 
straining arm  with  all  the  ferocity  of  a  little  wild 
anknal. 

"I  want  to  go  to  him !  I  want  to  go  to  him !"  he 
was  shrieking.  "I  want  to  go  to  my  father!" 

The  Captain,  as  he  held  a  big  gentle  hand  on 
Norris'  shoulder,  looked  into  the  boy's  agonised 
face  and  suddenly  realised  that  the  fostered  lie  of 
many  years  was  a  failure.  The  truth  was  out. 

"Go  ahead!"  he  said  gruffly.  And  the  words 
were  scarcely  out  before  the  boy  had  bounded  into 
the  centre  of  the  great  room  and  wedging  himself 
in  through  the  tangled  group  surrounding  the  fallen 
man,  had  thrown  himself  at  his  father's  side. 

"Pierre!  Pierre!"  he  sobbed.  "I  know— I 
know;  this  is  Norris!" 


342  Pilgrims  Into  Folly 

The  eyes  of  the  old  man — for  he  was  an  old  man 
now — opened.  He  looked  upon  his  son. 

"You  know?"  he  repeated  feebly.  His  chest 
heaved  to  abnormal  proportions  in  his  fight  for  air. 
His  lips  were  blue  and  damp.  His  sombre  eyes 
searched  wildly.  "You  know?"  he  asked  again. 
"And  did  I  do  my  work — well?" 

"Wonderfully,  Father — wonderfully!"  said  the 
boy  brokenly. 

A  look  of  joy  and  peace  relaxed  the  dying  man's 
features  as  vainly  he  sought  to  raise  a  hand  to  his 
son's  shoulder. 

"Captain  Annister — finest  man  I  ever  knew — did 
he  make  a  gentleman  out  of  you?" 

"I  hope  so,  Father." 

The  ghostly  shadow  of  a  smile  passed  over 
Pierre's  face.  "A  gentleman — like  Mr.  Vander- 
huyden?" 

"No,  Father,  no!" 

There  was  enquiry  in  Pierre's  eyes,  although  his 
lips  moved  helplessly.  Norris  read  the  look.  He 
leaned  close  to  his  father's  ear. 

"No,  not  like  that,"  he  said.    "Like  you." 

"Thank  God,  you  said  it,"  whispered  Annister  as. 
he  led  the  boy  away. 


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UNIVERSITY  QF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


